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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4894d2d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #68597 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/68597) diff --git a/old/68597-0.txt b/old/68597-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3b53674..0000000 --- a/old/68597-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,7389 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Landmarks in Russian literature, by -Maurice Baring - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Landmarks in Russian literature - -Author: Maurice Baring - -Release Date: July 23, 2022 [eBook #68597] - -Language: English - -Produced by: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at - https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN -LITERATURE *** - - - - - - LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN - LITERATURE - - - - -BY THE SAME AUTHOR - - - WITH THE RUSSIANS IN MANCHURIA - A YEAR IN RUSSIA - RUSSIAN ESSAYS AND STORIES - - - - - LANDMARKS IN - RUSSIAN LITERATURE - - BY - MAURICE BARING - - - SECOND EDITION - - - METHUEN & CO. LTD. - 36 ESSEX STREET W.C. - LONDON - - - - - _First Published_ _March 10th 1910_ - _Second Edition_ _1910_ - - - - - DEDICATED - - TO - - ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON - - - - -PREFACE - - -The chapters in this book on Tolstoy and Tourgeniev, and those on -Chekov and Gogol have appeared before. That on Tolstoy and Tourgeniev -in _The Quarterly Review_; those on Chekov and Gogol in _The New -Quarterly_; my thanks are due to the Editors and Proprietors concerned -for their kindness in allowing me to reprint these chapters here. - -The chapter on Russian Characteristics appeared in _St. George’s -Magazine_; the rest of the book is new. In writing it I consulted, -besides many books and articles in the Russian language, the following: - - The Works of Turgeniev. Translated by Constance Garnett. Fifteen vols. - London: Heinemann, 1906. - - The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy. Translated and edited by Leo - Wiener. Twenty-four vols. London: Dent, 1904-5. - - Le Roman Russe. By the Vicomte E. M. de Vogüé. Paris: Plon, 1897. - - Tolstoy as Man and Artist: with an Essay on Dostoievski. By Dimitri - Merejkowski. London: Constable, 1902.[1] - - Ivan Turgeniev: la Vie et l’Œuvre. By Émile Haumant. Paris: Armand - Colin, 1906. - - The Life of Tolstoy. First Fifty Years. By Aylmer Maude. London: - Constable, 1908. - - A Literary History of Russia. By Prof. A. Brückner. Edited by Ellis H. - Minns. Translated by H. Havelock. London and Leipsic: Fisher Unwin, - 1908. - - Realities and Ideals of Russian Literature. By Prince Kropotkin. - - Russian Poetry and Progress. By Mrs. Newmarch. John Lane. - -By far the best estimate of Tolstoy’s work I have come across in -England in the last few years was a brilliant article published in the -Literary Supplement of the _Times_, I think in 1907, which, it is to be -hoped, will be republished. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[1] This is an abridgment of a larger book by the author. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - CHAP. PAGE - - I. RUSSIAN CHARACTERISTICS 1 - - II. REALISM OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE 17 - - III. GOGOL AND THE CHEERFULNESS OF THE - RUSSIAN PEOPLE 39 - - IV. TOLSTOY AND TOURGENIEV 77 - - V. THE PLACE OF TOURGENIEV 116 - - VI. DOSTOIEVSKY 125 - - VII. PLAYS OF ANTON TCHEKOV 263 - - - - -INTRODUCTION - - -A book dealing with the literature of a foreign country appeals to -a double audience: the narrow circle of people who are intimately -familiar with that literature in its original tongue, and the large -public which is imperfectly acquainted even with translations of some -of its books. One of these audiences must necessarily be sacrificed. -For if you address yourself exclusively to the specialists, the larger -public will be but faintly interested; while if you have the larger -public in view alone, the narrower circle of those who are familiar -with the language will hear nothing from you which they do not already -know too well. In the case of a literature such as Russian, it is -obvious which audience has the claim to the greater consideration; -but while this book is addressed to those who are interested in but -not intimately familiar with Russian literature, I entertain the hope -that these essays may not prove entirely uninteresting to the closer -students of Russian. I have tried to make a compromise, and while -especially addressing myself to the majority, not to lose sight of the -minority altogether. - -The standpoint from which I approach Russian literature is less that -of the scholar than of an admiring and sympathetic friend. I have -tried to understand what the Russians themselves think about their own -literature, and in some manner to reflect their point of view as it -struck me either in their books or in conversation with many men and -women of many classes throughout several years. - -It has always seemed to me that there are two ways of writing about -a foreign literature: from the outside and from the inside. Take a -language like French, for instance, and the study of French poetry -in particular. Many English students of French poetry seem to me to -start from the point of view that although much French verse has many -excellent qualities, those qualities which are peculiarly French and -which the French themselves admire most are not worth admiring. Thus it -is that we have had many excellent critics telling us that although the -French poetry of the Renaissance is admirable and the French Romantic -epoch produced men of astounding genius, yet the poets of another sort, -whom the French set up on a permanent pinnacle as models of classic -perfection, such as Racine or La Fontaine, are not poets at all. Some -critics have even gone further, and have maintained that admirable as -the French language is as an instrument for writing prose, it cannot -properly be used as a vehicle for writing poetry, and that French -poetry cannot be considered as being in the same category or on the -same footing as the verse of other nations. This is what I call the -outside view, and I am not only not persuaded of its truth, but I am -convinced that it is false, for two reasons:-- - -First, because I cannot help thinking that the natives of a country -must be the best judges of their own tongue and of its literature, -and that foreign critics, however acute, may fail to appreciate -certain shades of meaning and sound which particularly appeal to the -native--for instance, I am sure it is more difficult for a foreigner -to appreciate the music of Milton’s diction than for an Englishman. -Secondly, since I learnt French at the same time as I learnt English, -and became familiar with French verse long before I was introduced to -the works of English poets, from my childhood up to the present day -French poetry has seemed to me to be just as beautiful as the poetry -of any other country, and the verse of Racine as musical as that of -Milton. I have, moreover, sometimes suspected that the severe sentences -I have seen passed on the French classics by English critics were -perhaps due to imperfect familiarity with the language in question, and -that it even seemed possible that in condemning French verse they were -ignorant of the French laws of metre and scansion; such ignorance would -certainly prove a serious obstacle to proper appreciation. - -This digression is to make clear what I mean when I say that I have -tried to approach my subject from the inside; that is to say, I -have tried to put myself into the skin of a Russian, and to look at -the literature of Russia with his eyes, and then to explain to my -fellow-countrymen as clearly as possible what I have seen. I do not -say I have succeeded, but I have been greatly encouraged in the task -by having received appreciative thanks for my former efforts in this -direction from Russians who are, in my opinion, the only critics -competent to judge whether what I have written about their people and -their books hits the mark or not. - -One of the great difficulties in writing studies of various Russian -writers is the paradoxical thread that runs through the Russian -character. Russia is the land of paradoxes. The Russian character and -temperament are baffling, owing to the paradoxical elements which are -found united in them. It is for this reason that a series of studies -dealing with different aspects of the Russian character often have -the appearance of being a series of contradictory statements. I have -therefore in the first chapter of this book stated what I consider to -be the chief paradoxical elements of the Russian character. It is the -conflicting nature of these elements which accounts for the seemingly -contradictory qualities that we meet with in Russian literature. For -instance, there is a passive element in the Russian nature; there -is also something unbridled, a spirit which breaks all bounds of -self-control and runs riot; and there is also a stubborn element, a -tough obstinacy. The result is that at one moment one is pointing out -the matter-of-fact side of the Russian genius which clings to the earth -and abhors extravagance; and at another time one is discoursing on the -passion certain Russian novelists have for making their characters -wallow in abstract discussions; or, again, the cheerfulness of Gogol -has to be reconciled with the “inspissated gloom” of certain other -writers. All this makes it easy for a critic to bring the charge of -inconsistency against a student whose object is to provide certain -side-lights on certain striking examples, rather than a comprehensive -view of the whole, a task which is beyond the scope and powers of the -present writer. - -The student of Russian literature who wishes for a comprehensive view -of the whole of Russian literature and of its historic significance -and development, cannot do better than read Professor Brückner’s -solid and brilliant _Literary History of Russia_, which is admirably -translated into English. - -The object of my book is to interest the reader in Russia and Russian -literature, and to enable him to make up his mind as to whether he -wishes to seek after a more intimate knowledge of the subject. - -The authors whose work forms the subject of this book belong to the -period which began in the fifties and ended before the Russo-Japanese -War. The work of Tchekov represents the close of that epoch which -began with Gogol. After Tchekov the dawn of a new era was marked by -the startling advent of Maxim Gorky into Russian literature. Then came -the war, and with it a torrent of new writers, of new thoughts, of new -schools, of new theories of art. The most remarkable of these writers -is no doubt Andreev; but in order to discuss his work as well as that -of other writers who followed in his train, it would be necessary to -write another book. The student of Russian literature will notice that -I have omitted many Russian authors who are well known in the epoch -which I have chosen. I have omitted them for reasons which I have -already stated at the beginning of this Introduction, namely, that -there is not in England a large enough circle of readers interested -in Russian literature to the extent of wishing to read about its less -well-known writers. I think the authors I have chosen are typical of -the generations they represent, and I hope that this book may have -the effect of leading readers from books _about_ Russia and Russian -literature, to the country itself and its books, so that they may be -able to see with their own eyes and to correct the impressions which -they have received secondhand. - - - - -LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN LITERATURE - - - - -CHAPTER I - -RUSSIAN CHARACTERISTICS - - -The difficulty in explaining anything to do with Russia to an English -public is that confusion is likely to arise owing to the terms -used being misunderstood. For instance, if one describes a Russian -officer, a Russian bureaucrat, a Russian public servant, or a Russian -schoolmaster, the reader involuntarily makes a mental comparison with -corresponding people in his own country, or in other European countries -where he has travelled. He necessarily fails to remember that there -are certain vital differences between Russians and people of other -countries, which affect the whole question, and which make the Russian -totally different from the corresponding Englishman. I wish before -approaching the work of Russian writers, to sketch a few of the main -characteristics which lie at the root of the Russian temperament by -which Russian literature is profoundly affected. - -The principal fact which has struck me with regard to the Russian -character, is a characteristic which was once summed up by Professor -Milioukov thus: “A Russian,” he said, “lacks the cement of hypocrisy.” -This cement, which plays so important a part in English public and -private life, is totally lacking in the Russian character. The Russian -character is plastic; the Russian can understand everything. You -can mould him any way you please. He is like wet clay, yielding and -malleable; he is passive; he bows his head and gives in before the -decrees of Fate and of Providence. At the same time, it would be a -mistake to say that this is altogether a sign of weakness. There is a -kind of toughness in the Russian character, an irreducible obstinacy -which makes for strength; otherwise the Russian Empire would not exist. -But where the want of the cement of hypocrisy is most noticeable, is -in the personal relations of Russians towards their fellow-creatures. -They do not in the least mind openly confessing things of which -people in other countries are ashamed; they do not mind admitting to -dishonesty, immorality, or cowardice, if they happen to feel that -they are saturated with these defects; and they feel that their -fellow-creatures will not think the worse of them on this account, -because they know that their fellow-creatures will understand. The -astounding indulgence of the Russians arises out of this infinite -capacity for understanding. - -Another point: This absence of hypocrisy causes them to have an -impatience of cant and of convention. They will constantly say: “Why -not?” They will not recognise the necessity of drawing the line -somewhere, they will not accept as something binding the conventional -morality and the artificial rules of conduct which knit together our -society with a bond of steel. They may admit the expediency of social -laws, but they will never prate of the laws of any society being -divine; they will merely admit that they are convenient. Therefore, -if we go to the root of this matter, it comes to this: that the -Russians are more broadly and widely human than the people of other -European or Eastern countries, and, being more human, their capacity -of understanding is greater, for their extraordinary quickness of -apprehension comes from the heart rather than from the head. They are -the most humane and the most naturally kind of all the peoples of -Europe, or, to put it differently and perhaps more accurately, I should -say that there is more humanity and more kindness in Russia than in -any other European country. This may startle the reader; he may think -of the lurid accounts in the newspapers of massacres, brutal treatment -of prisoners, and various things of this kind, and be inclined to -doubt my statement. As long as the world exists there will always be -a certain amount of cruelty in the conduct of human beings. My point -is this: that there is less in Russia than in other countries, but the -trouble up to the last two years has been that all excesses of any kind -on the part of officials were unchecked and uncontrolled. Therefore, if -any man who had any authority over any other man happened to be brutal, -his brutality had a far wider scope and far richer opportunities than -that of a corresponding overseer in another country. - -During the last three years Russia has been undergoing a violent -evolutionary process of change, what in other countries has been called -a revolution; but compared with similar phases in other countries, -and taking into consideration the size of the Russian Empire, and the -various nationalities which it contains, I maintain that the proportion -of excesses has been comparatively less. There are other factors in the -question which should also be borne in mind; firstly, that politically -Russia is about a century behind other European countries, and the -second is that Russians accept the fact that a man who does wrong -deserves punishment, with a kind of Oriental fatality, although the -pity which is inherent in them causes them to have a horror of capital -punishment. - -Now, let us take the first question, and just imagine for a moment -what the treatment of the poor would be in England were there no such -thing as a _habeas corpus_. Imagine what the position of the police -would be, if it held a position of arbitrary dominion; if nobody were -responsible; if any policeman could do what he chose, with no further -responsibility than that towards his superior officers. I do not -hesitate to say that were such a state of things to exist in England, -the position of the poor would be intolerable. Now, the position of -the poor in Russia is not intolerable; it is bad, owing to the evils -inseparable from poverty, drink, and the want of control enjoyed by -public servants. But it is not intolerable. Were it intolerable, the -whole of the Russian poor, who number ninety millions, would have long -ago risen to a man. They have not done so because their position is -not intolerable; and the reason of this is, that the evils to which -I have alluded are to a certain extent mitigated by the good-nature -and kindness inherent in the Russian temperament, instead of being -aggravated by an innate brutality and cruelty such as we meet with in -Latin and other races. - -Again, closely connected with any political system which is backward, -you will always find in any country a certain brutality in the matter -of punishments. Perhaps the cause of this--which is the reason why -torture was employed in the Middle Ages, and why it is employed -in China at the present day--is that only a small percentage of -the criminal classes are ever arrested; therefore when a criminal -is caught, his treatment is often unduly severe. If you read, for -instance, the sentences of corporal punishment, etc., which were -passed in England in the eighteenth century by county judges, or -of the punishments which were the rule in the Duke of Wellington’s -army in the Peninsular War, they will make your hair stand on end by -their incredible brutality; and England in the eighteenth century was -politically more advanced than Russia is at the present day. - -With regard to the second point, the attitude of Russians towards the -question of punishments displays a curious blend of opinion. While -they are more indulgent than any other people when certain vices and -defects are concerned, they are ruthless in enforcing and accepting the -necessity of punishment in the case of certain other criminal offences. -For instance, they are completely indulgent with regard to any moral -delinquencies, but unswervingly stern in certain other matters; and -although they would often be inclined to let off a criminal, saying: -“Why should he be punished?” at the same time if he is punished, -and severely punished, they will accept the matter as a part of the -inevitable system that governs the world. On the other hand, they are -indulgent and tolerant where moral delinquencies which affect the man -himself and not the community are concerned; that is to say, they -will not mind how often or how violently a man gets drunk, because -the matter affects only himself; but they will bitterly resent a man -stealing horses, because thereby the whole community is affected. - -This attitude of mind is reflected in the Russian Code of Laws. The -Russian Penal Code, as M. Leroy-Beaulieu points out in his classic -book on Russia, is the most lenient in Europe. But the trouble is, -as the Liberal members of the Duma are constantly repeating, not -that the laws in Russia are bad, but that they are overridden by the -arbitrary conduct of individual officials. However, I do not wish -in this article to dwell on the causes of political discontent in -Russia, or on the evils of the bureaucratic régime. My object is -simply to point out certain characteristics of the Russian race, and -one of these characteristics is the leniency of the punishment laid -down by law for offences which in other countries are dealt with -drastically and severely; murder, for instance. Capital punishment -was abolished in Russia as long ago as 1753 by the Empress Elizabeth; -corporal punishment subsisted only among the peasants, administered -by themselves (and not by a magistrate) according to their own local -administration, until it was abolished by the present Emperor in 1904. -So that until the revolutionary movement began, cases of capital -punishment, which only occurred in virtue of martial law, were rare, -and from 1866 to 1903 only 114 men suffered the penalty of death -throughout the whole of the Russian Empire, including the outlying -districts such as Caucasus, Transbaikalia, and Turkestan;[2] and even -at the present moment, when the country is still practically governed -by martial law, which was established in order to cope with the -revolutionary movement, you can in Russia kill a man and only receive -a few years’ imprisonment. It is the contrast of the lenient treatment -meted out to non-political prisoners with the severity exercised -towards political offenders which strikes the Russian politician -to-day, and it is of this contradiction that he so bitterly complains. -The fact, nevertheless, remains--in spite of the cases, however -numerous, which arose out of the extraordinary situation created by the -revolutionary movement, that the sentence of death, meted out by the -judicial court, is in itself abhorrent to the Russian character. - -I will now give a few minor instances illustrating the indulgent -attitude of the Russian character towards certain moral delinquencies. -In a regiment which I came across in Manchuria during the war there -were two men; one was conscientious, brave to the verge of heroism, -self-sacrificing, punctilious in the performance of his duty, and -exacting in the demands he made on others as to the fulfilment of -theirs, untiringly energetic, competent in every way, but severe and -uncompromising. There was another man who was incurably lax in the -performance of his duty, not scrupulously honest where the Government -money was concerned, incompetent, but as kind as a human being can -be. I once heard a Russian doctor who was attached to this regiment -discussing and comparing the characters of the two men, and, after -weighing the pros and cons, he concluded that as a man the latter was -superior. Dishonesty in dealings with the public money seemed to him -an absolutely trifling fault. The unswerving performance of duty, and -all the great military qualities which he noted in the former, did not -seem to him to count in the balance against the great kindness of heart -possessed by the latter; and most of the officers agreed with him. It -never seemed to occur to these men that any one set of qualities, such -as efficiency, conscientiousness, or honesty, were more indispensable, -or in any way superior to any other set of qualities. They just noticed -the absence of them in others, or, as often happened, in themselves, -and thought they were amply compensated for by the presence of other -qualities, such as good-nature or amiability. And one notices in -Russian literature that authors such as Dostoievsky are not content -with showing us the redeeming points of a merely bad character, that -is to say, of a man fundamentally good, but who indulges in vice or in -crime; but they will take pleasure in showing you the redeeming points -of a character which at first sight appears to be radically mean and -utterly despicable. The aim of these authors seems to be to insist -that, just as nobody is indispensable, so nobody is superfluous. There -is no such thing as a superfluous man; and any man, however worthless, -miserable, despicable and mean he may seem to be, has just as much -right to be understood as any one else; and they show that, when he -is understood, he is not, taking him as a whole, any worse than his -fellow-creatures. - -Another characteristic which strikes one in Russian literature, and -still more in Russian life, especially if one has mingled in the lower -classes, is the very deeply rooted sense of pity which the Russians -possess. An Englishman who is lame, and whom I met in Russia, told -me that he had experienced there a treatment such as he had never -met before in any other country. The people, and especially the poor, -noticed his lameness, and, guessing what would be difficult for him to -do, came to his aid and helped him. - -In the streets of Moscow and St. Petersburg you rarely see beggars beg -in vain; and I have observed, travelling third class in trains and in -steamers, that when the poor came to beg bread for food from the poor, -they were never sent empty away. During the war I always found the -soldiers ready to give me food, however little they had for themselves, -in circumstances when they would have been quite justified in sending -me about my business as a pestilential nuisance and camp-follower. It -is impossible for a man to starve in Russia. He is perfectly certain -to find some one who will give him food for the asking. In Siberia -the peasants in the villages put bread on their window-sills, in -case any fugitive prisoners should be passing by. This fundamental -goodness of heart is the most important fact in the Russian nature; -it, and the expression of it in their literature, is the greatest -contribution which they have made to the history of the world. It is -probably the cause of all their weakness. For the defects indispensable -to such qualities are slackness, and the impossibility of conceiving -self-discipline to be a necessity, or of recognising the conventional -rules and prejudices which make for solidity, and which are, as -Professor Milioukov said, as cement is to a building. - -The result of the absence of this hard and binding cement of prejudice -and discipline is that it is very difficult to attain a standard of -efficiency in matters where efficiency is indispensable. For instance, -in war. In a regiment with which I lived for a time during the war -there was a young officer who absolutely insisted on the maintenance of -a high standard of efficiency. He insisted on his orders being carried -out to the letter; his fellow-officers thought he was rather mad. One -day we had arrived in a village, and one of the younger officers had -ordered the horses to be put up in the yard facing the house in which -we were to live. Presently the officer to whom I have alluded arrived, -and ordered the horses to be taken out and put into a separate yard, -as he considered the arrangement which he found on his arrival to be -insanitary--which it was. He went away, and the younger officer did not -dream of carrying out his order. - -“What is the use?” he said, “the horses may just as well stay where -they are.” - -They considered this man to be indulging in an unnecessary pose, but -he was not, according to our ideas, in the least a formalist or a -lover of red tape; he merely insisted on what he considered to be -an irreducible minimum of discipline, the result being that he was -a square peg in a round hole. Moreover, when people committed, or -commit (and this is true in any department of public life in Russia), -a glaring offence, or leave undone an important part of their duty, it -is very rare that they are dealt with drastically; they are generally -threatened with punishment which ends in platonic censure. And this -fact, combined with a bureaucratic system, has dangerous results, for -the official often steps beyond the limits of his duty and takes upon -himself to commit lawless acts, and to exercise unlawful and arbitrary -functions, knowing perfectly well that he can do so with impunity, -and that he will not be punished. And one of the proofs that a new -era is now beginning in Russia is a series of phenomena never before -witnessed, and which have occurred not long ago--namely, the punishment -and dismissal of guilty officials, such as, for instance, that of -Gurko, who was dismissed from his post in the Government for having -been responsible for certain dishonest dealings in the matter of the -Famine Relief. - -Of course such indulgence, or rather the slackness resulting from it, -is not universal. Otherwise the whole country would go to pieces. And -yet so far from going to pieces, even through a revolution things -jogged on somehow or other. For against every square yard of slackness -there is generally a square inch of exceptional capacity, and a square -foot of dogged efficiency, and thus the balance is restored. The -incompetency of a Stoessel, and a host of others, is counterbalanced -not only by the brilliant energy of a Kondratenko, but by the hard -work of thousands of unknown men. And this is true throughout all -public life in Russia. At the same time, the happy-go-lucky element, -the feeling of “What does it matter?” of what they call _nichevo_, is -the preponderating quality; and it is only so far counterbalanced by -sterner qualities as to make the machine go on. This accounts also for -the apparent weakness of the revolutionary element in Russia. The ranks -of these people, which at one moment appear to be so formidable, at the -next moment seem to have scattered to the four winds of heaven. They -appear to give in and to accept, to submit and be resigned to fate. -But there is nevertheless an undying passive resistance; and at the -bottom of the Russian character, whether that character be employed -in revolutionary or in other channels, there is an obstinate grit of -resistance. Again, one is met in Russian history, from the days of -Peter the Great down to the present day, with isolated instances of -exceptional energy and of powers of organisation, such as Souvorov, -Skobelieff, Kondratenko, Kilkov, and, to take a less known instance, -Kroustalieff (who played a leading part in organising the working -classes during the great strike in 1905). - -The way in which troops were poured into Manchuria during the war -across a single line, which was due to the brilliant organisation of -Prince Kilkov, is in itself a signal instance of organisation and -energy in the face of great material difficulties. The station at -Liaoyang was during the war under the command of a man whose name -I have forgotten, but who showed the same qualities of energy and -resource. On the day Liaoyang was evacuated, and while the station was -being shelled, he managed to get off every train safely, and to leave -nothing behind. There were many such instances which are at present -little known, to be set against the incompetence and mismanagement of -which one hears so much. - -It is perhaps this blend of opposite qualities, this mixture of -softness and slackness and happy-go-lucky _insouciance_ (all of which -qualities make a thing as pliant as putty and as yielding as dough) -with infinite capacity for taking pains, and the inspiring energy and -undefeated patience in the face of seemingly insuperable obstacles, -which makes the Russian character difficult to understand. You have, -on the one hand, the man who bows his head before an obstacle and -says that it does not after all matter very much; and, on the other -hand, the man who with a few straws succeeds in making a great palace -of bricks. Peter the Great was just such a man, and Souvorov and -Kondratenko were the same in kind, although less in degree. And again, -you have the third type, the man who, though utterly defeated, and -apparently completely submissive, persists in resisting--the passive -resister whose obstinacy is unlimited, and whose influence in matters -such as the revolutionary propaganda is incalculable. - -It has been constantly said that Russia is the land of paradoxes, and -there is perhaps no greater paradox than the mixture in the Russian -character of obstinacy and weakness, and the fact that the Russian is -sometimes inclined to throw up the sponge instantly, while at others -he becomes himself a tough sponge, which, although pulled this way and -that, is never pulled to pieces. He is undefeated and indefatigable in -spite of enormous odds, and thus we are confronted in Russian history -with men as energetic as Peter the Great, and as slack as Alexeieff the -Viceroy. - -People talk of the waste of Providence in never making a ruby without -a flaw, but is it not rather the result of an admirable economy, which -never deals out a portion of coffee without a certain admixture of -chicory? - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[2] See Tagantseff, _Russian Criminal Law_. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -REALISM OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE - - -The moment a writer nowadays mentions the word “realism” he risks the -danger of being told that he is a disciple of a particular school, -and that he is bent on propagating a peculiar and exclusive theory of -art. If, however, Russian literature is to be discussed at all, the -word “realism” cannot be avoided. So it will be as well to explain -immediately and clearly what I mean when I assert that the main -feature of both Russian prose and Russian verse is its closeness to -nature, its love of reality, which for want of a better word one can -only call realism. When the word “realism” is employed with regard to -literature, it gives rise to two quite separate misunderstandings: -this is unavoidable, because the word has been used to denote special -schools and theories of art which have made a great deal of noise both -in France and England and elsewhere. - -The first misunderstanding arises from the use of the word by a certain -French school of novelists who aimed at writing scientific novels -in which the reader should be given slices of raw life; and these -novelists strove by an accumulation of detail to produce the effect of -absolute reality. The best known writers of this French school did not -succeed in doing this, although they achieved striking results of a -different character. For instance, Emile Zola was entirely successful -when he wrote prose epics on subjects such as life in a mine, life -in a huge shop, or life during a great war; that is to say, he was -poetically successful when he painted with a broad brush and set great -crowds in motion. He produced matchless panoramas, but the effect of -them at their best was a poetic, romantic effect. When he tried to be -realistic, and scientifically realistic, when he endeavoured to say -everything by piling detail on detail, he merely succeeded in being -tedious and disgusting. And so far from telling the whole truth, he -produced an effect of distorted exaggeration such as one receives from -certain kinds of magnifying and distorting mirrors. - -The second misunderstanding with regard to the word “realism” is this. -Certain people think that if you say an author strives to attain an -effect of truth and reality in his writings, you must necessarily mean -that he is without either the wish or the power to select, and that his -work is therefore chaotic. Not long ago, in a book of short sketches, -I included a very short and inadequate paper on certain aspects of the -Russian stage; and in mentioning Tchekov, the Russian dramatist, I made -the following statement: “The Russian stage simply aims at one thing: -to depict everyday life, not exclusively the brutality of everyday -life, nor the tremendous catastrophes befalling human beings, nor to -devise intricate problems and far-fetched cases of conscience in which -human beings might possibly be entangled. It simply aims at presenting -glimpses of human beings as they really are, and by means of such -glimpses it opens out avenues and vistas into their lives.” I added -further that I considered such plays would be successful in any country. - -A reviewer, commenting on this in an interesting article, said that -these remarks revealed the depth of my error with regard to realism. -“As if the making of such plays,” wrote the reviewer, “were not the -perpetual aim of dramatists! But a dramatist would be putting chaos and -not real life on the stage if he presented imitations of unselected -people doing unselected things at unselected moments. The idea which -binds the drama together, an idea derived by reason from experience of -life at large, is the most real and lifelike part in it, if the drama -is a good one.” - -Now I am as well aware as this reviewer, or as any one else, that it is -the perpetual aim of dramatists to make such plays. But it is an aim -which they often fail to achieve. For instance, we have had, during the -last thirty years in England and France, many successful and striking -plays in which the behaviour of the characters although effective from -a theatrical point of view, is totally unlike the behaviour of men -and women in real life. Again, when I wrote of the Russian stage, I -never for a moment suggested that the Russian dramatist did, or that -any dramatist should, present imitations of unselected people doing -unselected things at unselected moments. As my sketch was a short one, -I was not able to go into the question in full detail, but I should -have thought that if one said that a play was true to life, and at the -same time theatrically and dramatically successful, that is to say, -interesting to a large audience, an ordinary reader would have taken -for granted (as many of my readers did take for granted) that in the -work of such dramatists there must necessarily have been selection. - -Later on in this book I shall deal at some length with the plays -of Anton Tchekov, and in discussing that writer, I hope to make it -clear that his work, so far from presenting imitations of unselected -people doing unselected things at unselected moments, are imitations -of selected but real people, doing selected but probable things at -selected but interesting moments. But the difference between Tchekov -and most English and French dramatists (save those of the quite modern -school) is, that the moments which Tchekov selects appear at first -sight to be trivial. His genius consists in the power of revealing the -dramatic significance of the seemingly trivial. It stands to reason, -as I shall try to point out later on, that the more realistic your -play, the more it is true to life; the less obvious action there is -in it, the greater must be the skill of the dramatist; the surer his -art, the more certain his power of construction, the nicer his power of -selection. - -Mr. Max Beerbohm once pointed this out by an apt illustration. “The -dramatist,” he said, “who deals in heroes, villains, buffoons, queer -people who are either doing or suffering either tremendous or funny -things, has a very valuable advantage over the playwright who deals -merely in humdrum you and me. The dramatist has his material as a -springboard. The adramatist must leap as best he can on the hard high -road, the adramatist must be very much an athlete.” - -That is just it: many of the modern (and ancient) Russian playwriters -are adramatists. But they are extremely athletic; and so far from their -work being chaotic, they sometimes give evidence, as in the case of -Tchekov, of a supreme mastery over the construction and architectonics -of drama, as well as of an unerring instinct for what will be telling -behind footlights, although at first sight their choice does not seem -to be obviously dramatic. - -Therefore, everything I have said so far can be summed up in two -statements: Firstly, that Russian literature, because it deals with -realism, has nothing in common with the work of certain French -“Naturalists,” by whose work the word “realism” has achieved so wide -a notoriety; secondly, Russian literature, although it is realistic, -is not necessarily chaotic, and contains many supreme achievements -in the art of selection. But I wish to discuss the peculiar quality -of Russian realism, because it appears to me that it is this quality -which differentiates Russian literature from the literature of other -countries. - -I have not dealt in this book with Russian poets, firstly, because the -number of readers who are familiar with Russian poetry in its original -tongue is limited; and, secondly, because it appears to me impossible -to discuss Russian poetry, if one is forced to deal in translations, -since no translation, however good, can give the reader an idea either -of the music, the atmosphere, or the charm of the original. But it -is in Russian poetry that the quality of Russian realism is perhaps -most clearly made manifest. Any reader familiar with German literature -will, I think, agree that if one compares French or English poetry -with German poetry, and French and English Romanticism with German -Romanticism, one is conscious, when one approaches the work of the -Germans, of entering into a more sober and more quiet dominion; one -leaves behind one the exuberance of England: “the purple patches” of -a Shakespeare, the glowing richness of a Keats, the soaring rainbow -fancies of a Shelley, the wizard horizons of a Coleridge. One also -leaves behind one the splendid sword-play and gleaming decision of the -French: the clarions of Corneille, the harps and flutes of Racine, the -great many-piped organ of Victor Hugo, the stormy pageants of Musset, -the gorgeous lyricism of Flaubert, the jewelled dreams of Gautier, and -all the colour and the pomp of the Parnassians. One leaves all these -things behind, and one steps into a world of quiet skies, rustling -leaves, peaceful meadows, and calm woods, where the birds twitter -cheerfully and are answered by the plaintive notes of pipe or reed, or -interrupted by the homely melody, sometimes cheerful and sometimes sad, -of the wandering fiddler. - -In this country, it is true, we have visions and vistas of distant -hills and great brooding waters, of starlit nights and magical -twilights; in this country, it is also true that we hear the echoes -of magic horns, the footfall of the fairies, the tinkling hammers of -the sedulous Kobolds, and the champing and the neighing of the steeds -of Chivalry. But there is nothing wildly fantastic, nor portentously -exuberant, nor gorgeously dazzling; nothing tempestuous, unbridled, -or extreme. When the Germans have wished to express such things, they -have done so in their music; they certainly have not done so in their -poetry. What they have done in their poetry, and what they have done -better than any one else, is to express in the simplest of all words -the simplest of all thoughts and feelings. They have spoken of first -love, of spring and the flowers, the smiles and tears of children, -the dreams of youth and the musings of old age--with a simplicity, a -homeliness no writers of any other country have ever excelled. And when -they deal with the supernatural, with ghosts, fairies, legends, deeds -of prowess or phantom lovers, there is a quaint homeliness about the -recital of such things, as though they were being told by the fireside -in a cottage, or being sung on the village green to the accompaniment -of a hurdy-gurdy. To many Germans the phantasy of a Shelley or of a -Victor Hugo is essentially alien and unpalatable. They feel as though -they were listening to men who are talking too loud and too wildly, -and they merely wish to get away or to stop their ears. Again, poets -like Keats or Gautier often produce on them the impression that they -are listening to sensuous and meaningless echoes. - -Now Russian poetry is a step farther on in this same direction. The -reader who enters the kingdom of Russian poetry, after having visited -those of France and England, experiences what he feels in entering the -German region, but still more so. The region of Russian poetry is still -more earthy. Even the mysticism of certain German Romantic writers is -alien to it. The German poetic country is quiet and sober, it is true; -but in its German forests you hear, as I have said, the noise of those -hoofs which are bearing riders to the unknown country. Also you have in -German literature, allegory and pantheistic dreams which are foreign to -the Russian poetic temperament, and therefore unreflected in Russian -poetry. - -The Russian poetical temperament, and, consequently, Russian poetry, -does not only closely cling to the solid earth, but it is based on -and saturated with sound common sense, with a curious matter-of-fact -quality. And this common sense with which the greatest Russian poet, -Pushkin, is so thoroughly impregnated, is as foreign to German -_Schwärmerei_ as it is to French rhetoric, or the imaginative -exuberance of England. In Russian poetry of the early part of the -nineteenth century, in spite of the enthusiasm kindled in certain -Russian poets by the romantic scenery of the Caucasus, there is very -little feeling for nature. Nature, in the poetry of Pushkin, is more or -less conventional: almost the only flower mentioned is the rose, almost -the only bird the nightingale. And although certain Russian poets -adopted the paraphernalia and the machinery of Romanticism (largely -owing to the influence of Byron), their true nature, their fundamental -sense, keeps on breaking out. Moreover, there is an element in Russian -Romanticism of passive obedience, of submission to authority, which -arises partly from the passive quality in all Russians, and partly from -the atmosphere of the age and the political régime of the beginning of -the nineteenth century. Thus it is that no Russian Romantic poet would -have ever tried to reach the dim pinnacles of Shelley’s speculative -cities, and no Russian Romantic poet would have uttered a wild cry of -revolt such as Musset’s “Rolla.” But what the Russian poets did do, -and what they did in a manner which gives them an unique place in the -history of the world’s literature, was to extract poetry from the daily -life they saw round them, and to express it in forms of incomparable -beauty. Russian poetry, like the Russian nature, is plastic. -Plasticity, adaptability, comprehensiveness, are the great qualities -of Pushkin. His verse is “simple, sensuous and impassioned”; there is -nothing indistinct about it, no vague outline and no blurred detail; it -is perfectly balanced, and it is this sense of balance and proportion -blent with a rooted common sense, which reminds the reader when he -reads Pushkin of Greek art, and gives one the impression that the poet -is a classic, however much he may have employed the stock-in-trade of -Romanticism. - -Meredith says somewhere that the poetry of mortals is their daily -prose. It is precisely this kind of poetry, the poetry arising -from the incidents of everyday life, which the Russian poets have -been successful in transmuting into verse. There is a quality of -matter-of-factness in Russian poetry which is unique; the same quality -exists in Russian folklore and fairy tales; even Russian ghosts, and -certainly the Russian devil, have an element of matter-of-factness -about them; and the most Romantic of all Russian poets, Lermontov, has -certain qualities which remind one more of Thackeray than of Byron or -Shelley, who undoubtedly influenced him. - -I will quote as an example of this one of his most famous poems. It is -called “The Testament,” and it is the utterance of a man who has been -mortally wounded in battle. - - “I want to be alone with you,[3] - A moment quite alone. - The minutes left to me are few, - They say I’ll soon be gone. - And you’ll be going home on leave, - Then tell ... but why? I do believe - There’s not a soul, who’ll greatly care - To hear about me over there. - - And yet if some one asks you, well, - Let us suppose they do-- - A bullet hit me here, you’ll tell,-- - The chest,--and it went through. - And say I died and for the Tsar, - And say what fools the doctors are;-- - And that I shook you by the hand, - And thought about my native land. - - My father and my mother, there! - They may be dead by now; - To tell the truth, I wouldn’t care - To grieve them anyhow. - If one of them is living, say - I’m bad at writing home, and they - Have sent us to the front, you see,-- - And that they needn’t wait for me. - - They’ve got a neighbour, as you know, - And you remember I - And she.... How very long ago - It is we said good-bye! - She won’t ask after me, nor care, - But tell her ev’rything, don’t spare - Her empty heart; and let her cry;-- - To her it doesn’t signify.” - -The words of this poem are the words of familiar conversation; they are -exactly what the soldier would say in such circumstances. There is not -a single literary or poetical expression used. And yet the effect in -the original is one of poignant poetical feeling and consummate poetic -art. I know of no other language where the thing is possible; because -if you translate the Russian by the true literary equivalents, you -would have to say: “I would like a word alone with you, old fellow,” or -“old chap,”[4] or something of that kind; and I know of no English poet -who has ever been able to deal successfully (in poetry) with the speech -of everyday life without the help of slang or dialect. What is needed -for this are the Russian temperament and the Russian language. - -I will give another instance of what I mean. There is a Russian poet -called Krilov, who wrote fables such as those of La Fontaine, based -for the greater part on those of Æsop. He wrote a version of what is -perhaps La Fontaine’s masterpiece, “Les Deux Pigeons,” which begins -thus: - - “Two pigeons, like two brothers, lived together. - They shared their all in fair and wintry weather. - Where the one was the other would be near, - And every joy they shared and every tear. - They noticed not Time’s flight. Sadness they knew; - But weary of each other never grew.” - -This last line, translated literally, runs: “They were sometimes -sad, they were never bored.” It is one of the most poetical in -the whole range of Russian literature; and yet how absolutely -untranslatable!--not only into English, but into any other language. -How can one convey the word “boring” so that it shall be poetical, in -English or in French? In Russian one can, simply from the fact that the -word which means boring, “skouchno,” is just as fit for poetic use as -the word “groustno,” which means sad. And this proves that it is easier -for Russians to make poetry out of the language of everyday than it is -for Englishmen. - -The matter-of-fact quality of the Russian poetical temperament--its -dislike of exaggeration and extravagance--is likewise clearly visible -in the manner in which Russian poets write of nature. I have already -said that the poets of the early part of the nineteenth century reveal -(compared with their European contemporaries) only a mild sentiment for -the humbler aspects of nature; but let us take a poet of a later epoch, -Alexis Tolstoy, who wrote in the fifties, and who may not unfairly be -called a Russian Tennyson. In the work of Tolstoy the love of nature -reveals itself on almost every page. His work brings before our eyes -the landscape of the South of Russia, and expresses the charm and the -quality of that country in the same way as Tennyson’s “In Memoriam” -evokes for us the sight of England. Yet if one compares the two, the -work of the Russian poet is nearer to the earth, familiar and simple -in a fashion which is beyond the reach of other languages. Here, for -instance, is a rough translation of one of Alexis Tolstoy’s poems: - - “Through the slush and the ruts of the road, - By the side of the dam of the stream; - Where the wet fishing nets are spread, - The carriage jogs on, and I muse. - - I muse and I look at the road, - At the damp and the dull grey sky, - At the shelving bank of the lake, - And the far-off smoke of the villages. - - By the dam, with a cheerless face, - Is walking a tattered old Jew. - From the lake, with a splashing of foam, - The waters rush through the weir. - - A little boy plays on a pipe, - He has made it out of a reed. - The startled wild-ducks have flown, - And call as they sweep from the lake. - - Near the old crumbling mill - Labourers sit on the grass. - An old worn horse in a cart, - Is lazily dragging some sacks. - - And I know it all, oh! so well, - Although I have never been here; - The roof of that house over there, - And that boy, and the wood, and the weir, - - And the mournful voice of the mill, - And the crumbling barn in the field-- - I have been here and seen it before, - And forgotten it all long ago. - - This very same horse plodded on, - It was dragging the very same sacks; - And under the mouldering mill - Labourers sat on the grass. - - And the Jew, with his beard, walked by, - And the weir made just such a noise. - All this has happened before, - Only, I cannot tell when.” - -I have said that Russian fairy tales and folk stories are full of the -same spirit of matter-of-factness. And so essential do I consider this -factor to be, so indispensable do I consider the comprehension of it by -the would-be student of Russian literature, that I will quote a short -folk-story at length, which reveals this quality in its essence. The -reader will only have to compare the following tale in his mind with a -French, English, or German fairy tale to see what I mean. - - -THE FOOL - -Once upon a time in a certain kingdom there lived an old man, and he -had three sons. Two of them were clever, the third was a fool. The -father died, and the sons drew lots for his property: the clever sons -won every kind of useful thing; the fool only received an old ox, and -that was a lean and bony one. - -The time of the fair came, and the clever brothers made themselves -ready to go and do a deal. The fool saw them doing this, and said: - -“I also, brothers, shall take my ox to the market.” - -And he led his ox by a rope tied to its horn, towards the town. On the -way to the town he went through a wood, and in the wood there stood an -old dried-up birch tree. The wind blew and the birch tree groaned. - -“Why does the birch tree groan?” thought the fool. “Does it perhaps -wish to bargain for my ox? Now tell me, birch tree, if you wish to buy. -If that is so, buy. The price of the ox is twenty roubles: I cannot -take less. Show your money.” - -But the birch tree answered nothing at all, and only groaned, and the -fool was astonished that the birch tree wished to receive the ox on -credit. - -“If that is so, I will wait till to-morrow,” said the fool. - -He tied the ox to the birch tree, said good-bye to it, and went home. - -The clever brothers came to him and began to question him. - -“Well, fool,” they said, “have you sold your ox?” - -“I have sold it.” - -“Did you sell it dear?” - -“I sold it for twenty roubles.” - -“And where is the money?” - -“I have not yet got the money. I have been told I shall receive it -to-morrow.” - -“Oh, you simpleton!” said the clever brothers. - -On the next day, early in the morning, the fool got up, made himself -ready, and went to the birch tree for his money. He arrived at the -wood; the birch tree was there, swaying in the wind, but the ox was not -there any more,--the wolves had eaten him in the night. - -“Now, countryman,” said the fool to the birch tree, “pay me the money. -You promised you would pay it to-day.” - -The wind blew, the birch tree groaned, and the fool said: - -“Well, you are an untrustworthy fellow! Yesterday you said, ‘I will pay -the money to-morrow,’ and to-day you are trying to get out of it. If -this is so I will wait yet another day, but after that I shall wait no -longer, for I shall need the money myself.” - -The fool went home, and his clever brothers again asked him: “Well, -have you received your money?” - -“No, brothers,” he answered, “I shall have to wait still another little -day.” - -“Whom did you sell it to?” - -“A dried old birch tree in the wood.” - -“See what a fool!” said the brothers. - -On the third day the fool took an axe and set out for the wood. He -arrived and demanded the money. - -The birch tree groaned and groaned. - -“No, countryman,” said the fool, “if you always put off everything till -the morrow, I shall never get anything from you at all. I do not like -joking, and I shall settle matters with you at once and for all.” - -He took the axe and struck the tree, and the chips flew on all sides. - -Now in the tree was a hollow, and in this hollow some robbers had -hidden a bag of gold. The tree was split into two parts, and the fool -saw a heap of red gold; and he gathered the gold together in a heap and -took some of it home and showed it to his brothers. - -And his brothers said to him: - -“Where did you get such a lot of money, fool?” - -“A countryman of mine gave it to me for my ox,” he said, “and there is -still a great deal left. I could not bring half of it home. Let us go, -brothers, and get the rest of it.” - -They went into the wood and found the money, and brought it home. - -“Now look you, fool,” said the clever brothers, “do not tell any one -that we have so much money.” - -“Of course not,” said the fool, “I will not tell any one, I promise -you.” - -But soon after this they met a deacon. - -“What are you bringing from the wood, children?” said the deacon. - -“Mushrooms,” said the clever brothers. - -But the fool interrupted and said: “They are not telling the truth--we -are bringing gold. Look at it if you will.” - -The deacon gasped with astonishment, fell upon the gold, and took as -much as he could and stuffed his pockets full of it. - -But the fool was annoyed at this, and struck him with an axe and beat -him till he was dead. - -“Oh fool, what have you done?” said his brothers. “You will be ruined, -and ruin us also. What shall we do now with this dead body?” - -They thought and they thought, and then they took it to an empty cellar -and threw it into the cellar. - -Late in the evening the eldest brother said to the second: “This is a -bad business. As soon as they miss the deacon the fool is certain to -tell them all about it. Let us kill a goat and hide it in the cellar -and put the dead body in some other place.” - -They waited until the night was dark; then they killed a goat, threw it -into the cellar, and took the body of the deacon to another place and -buried it in the earth. - -A few days passed; people looked for the deacon everywhere, and asked -everybody they could about him. And the fool said to them: - -“What do you want of him? I killed him with an axe, and my brothers -threw the body into the cellar.” - -They at once seized the fool and said to him: - -“Take us and show us.” - -The fool climbed into the cellar, took out the head of the goat, and -said: - -“Was your deacon black?” - -“Yes,” they said. - -“And had he got a beard?” - -“Yes, he had a beard.” - -“And had he got horns?” - -“What sort of horns, you fool?” - -“Well, look!” And he threw down the head. - -The people looked and saw that it was a goat, and they spat at the fool -and went home. - - * * * * * - -This story, more than pages of analysis and more than chapters of -argument, illustrates what I mean: namely, that if the Russian poet -and the Russian peasant, the one in his verse, the other in his folk -tales and fairy stories, are matter-of-fact, alien to flights of -exaggerated fancy, and above all things enamoured of the truth; if by -their closeness to nature, their gift of seeing things as they are, and -expressing these things in terms of the utmost simplicity, without -fuss, without affectation and without artificiality,--if, I say, all -this entitles us to call them realists, then this realism is not and -must never be thought of as being the fad of a special school, the -theory of a limited clique, or the watchword of a literary camp, but -it is rather the natural expression of the Russian temperament and the -Russian character. - -I will try throughout this book to attempt to illustrate this character -and this temperament as best I can, by observing widely different -manifestations of it; but all these manifestations, however different -they may be, contain one great quality in common: that is, the quality -of reality of which I have been writing. And unless the student of -Russian literature realises this and appreciates what Russian realism -consists of, and what it really means, he will be unable to understand -either the men or the literature of Russia. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[3] This translation is in the metre of the original. It is literal; -but hopelessly inadequate. - -[4] In the Russian, although every word of the poem is familiar, not a -word of slang is used. - - - - -CHAPTER III - -GOGOL AND THE CHEERFULNESS OF THE RUSSIAN PEOPLE - - -The first thing that strikes the English reader when he dips into -translations of Russian literature, is the unrelieved gloom, the -unmitigated pessimism of the characters and the circumstances -described. Everything is grey, everybody is depressed; the atmosphere -is one of hopeless melancholy. On the other hand, the first thing that -strikes the English traveller when he arrives in Russia for the first -time, is the cheerfulness of the Russian people. Nowhere have I seen -this better described than in an article, written by Mr. Charles Hands, -which appeared in the summer of 1905 in _The Daily Mail_. Mr. Hands -summed up his idea of the Russian people, which he had gathered after -living with them for two years, both in peace and in war, in a short -article. His final impression was the same as that which he received on -the day he arrived in Russia for the first time. That was in winter; -it was snowing; the cold was intense. The streets of St. Petersburg -were full of people, and in spite of the driving snow, the bitter wind, -and the cruel cold, everybody was smiling, everybody was making the -best of it. Nowhere did you hear people grumbling, or come across a -face stamped with a grievance. - -I myself experienced an impression of the same kind, one evening in -July 1906. I was strolling about the streets of St. Petersburg. It was -the Sunday of the dissolution of the Duma; the dissolution had been -announced that very morning. The streets were crowded with people, -mostly poor people. I was walking with an Englishman who had spent some -years in Russia, and he said to me: “It is all very well to talk of -the calamities of this country. Have you ever in your life seen a more -cheerful Sunday crowd?” I certainly had not. - -The Russian character has an element of happy consent and submission -to the inevitable; of adapting itself to any circumstance, however -disagreeable, which I have never come across in any other country. The -Russians have a faculty of making the best of things which I have never -seen developed in so high a degree. I remember once in Manchuria during -the war, some soldiers, who were under the command of a sergeant, -preparing early one morning, just before the battle of Ta-Shi-Chiao, -to make some tea. Suddenly a man in command said there would not be -time to have tea. The men simply said, “To-day no tea will be drunk,” -with a smile; it did not occur to any one to complain, and they put -away the kettle, which was just on the boil, and drove away in a cart. -I witnessed this kind of incident over and over again. I remember one -night at a place called Lonely Tree Hill. I was with a battery. We -had just arrived, and there were no quarters. We generally lived in -Chinese houses, but on this occasion there were none to be found. We -encamped on the side of a hill. There was no shelter, no food, and -no fire, and presently it began to rain. The Cossacks, of whom the -battery was composed, made a kind of shelter out of what straw and -millet they could find, and settled themselves down as comfortably and -as cheerfully as if they had been in barracks. They accomplished the -difficult task of making themselves comfortable out of nothing, and of -making me comfortable also. - -Besides this power of making the best of things, the Russians have a -keen sense of humour. The clowns in their circuses are inimitable. A -type you frequently meet in Russia is the man who tells stories and -anecdotes which are distinguished by simplicity and by a knack of just -seizing on the ludicrous side of some trivial episode or conversation. -Their humour is not unlike English humour in kind, and this explains -the wide popularity of our humorous writers in Russia, beginning with -Dickens, including such essentially English writers as W. W. Jacobs -and the author of _The Diary of a Nobody_, and ending with Jerome K. -Jerome, whose complete works can be obtained at any Russian railway -station.[5] - -All these elements are fully represented in Russian literature; but -the kind of Russian literature which is saturated with these qualities -either does not reach us at all, or reaches us in scarce and inadequate -translations. - -The greatest humorist of Russian literature, the Russian Dickens, -is Nikolai Vasilievitch Gogol. Translations of some of his stories -and of his longest work, _Dead Souls_, were published in 1887 by Mr. -Vizetelly. These translations are now out of print, and the work of -Gogol may be said to be totally unknown in England. In France some -of his stories have been translated by no less a writer than Prosper -Mérimée. - -Gogol was a Little Russian, a Cossack by birth; he belonged to the -Ukraine, that is to say, the frontier country, the district which lies -between the north and the extreme south. It is a country of immense -plains, rich harvests, and smiling farms; of vines, laughter, and song. -He was born in 1809 near Poltava, in the heart of the Cossack country. -He was brought up by his grandfather, who had been the regimental -chronicler of the Zaporozhian Cossacks, who live in the region -beyond the falls of the Dnieper. His childhood was nursed in the warlike -traditions of that race, and fed with the tales of a heroic epoch, the -wars against Poland and the deeds of the dwellers of the Steppes. Later -he was sent to school, and in 1829, when he was twenty years old, he -went to St. Petersburg, where after many disillusions and difficulties -he obtained a place in a Government office. The time that he spent -in this office gave him the material for one of his best stories. -He soon tired of office work, and tried to go on the stage, but no -manager would engage him. He became a tutor, but was not a particularly -successful one. At last some friends obtained for him the professorship -of History at the University, but he failed in this profession also, -and so he finally turned to literature. By the publication of his first -efforts in the St. Petersburg press, he made some friends, and through -these he obtained an introduction to Pushkin, the greatest of Russian -poets, who was at that time in the fullness of his fame. - -Pushkin was a character devoid of envy and jealousy, overflowing with -generosity, and prodigal of praise. Gogol subsequently became his -favourite writer, and it was Pushkin who urged Gogol to write about -Russian history and popular Russian scenes. Gogol followed his advice -and wrote the _Evenings in a Farmhouse on the Dikanka_. These stories -are supposed to be told by an old beekeeper; and in them Gogol puts -all the memories of his childhood, the romantic traditions, the fairy -tales, the legends, the charming scenery, and the cheerful life of the -Little Russian country. - -In these stories he revealed the twofold nature of his talent: a -fantasy, a love of the supernatural, and a power of making us feel it, -which reminds one of Edgar Allan Poe, of Hoffmann, and of Robert Louis -Stevenson; and side by side with this fantastic element, the keenest -power of observation, which is mixed with an infectious sense of humour -and a rich and delightful drollery. Together with these gifts, Gogol -possessed a third quality, which is a blend of his fantasy and his -realism, namely, the power of depicting landscape and places, with -their colour and their atmosphere, in warm and vivid language. It is -this latter gift with which I shall deal first. Here, for instance, is -a description of the river Dnieper: - - “Wonderful is the Dnieper when in calm weather, smooth and wilful, - it drives its full waters through the woods and the hills; it does - not whisper, it does not boom. One gazes and gazes without being able - to tell whether its majestic spaces are moving or not: one wonders - whether the river is not a sheet of glass, when like a road of crystal - azure, measureless in its breadth and unending in its length, it - rushes and swirls across the green world. It is then that the sun - loves to look down from the sky and to plunge his rays into the cool - limpid waters; and the woods which grow on the banks are sharply - reflected in the river. - - “The green-tressed trees and the wild flowers crowd together at the - water’s edge; they bend down and gaze at themselves; they are never - tired of their own bright image, but smile to it and greet it, as - they incline their boughs. They dare not look into the midst of the - Dnieper; no one save the sun and the blue sky looks into that. It is - rare that a bird flies as far as the midmost waters. Glorious river, - there is none other like it in the world! - - “Wonderful is the Dnieper in the warm summer nights when all things - are asleep: men and beasts and birds, and God alone in His majesty - looks round on the heaven and the earth and royally spreads out His - sacerdotal vestment and lets it tremble. And from this vestment the - stars are scattered: the stars burn and shine over the world, and all - are reflected in the Dnieper. The Dnieper receives them all into - its dark bosom: not one escapes it. The dark wood with its sleeping - ravens, and the old rugged mountains above them, try to hide the river - with their long dark shadows, but it is in vain: there is nothing in - all the world which could overshadow the Dnieper! Blue, infinitely - blue, its smooth surface is always moving by night and by day, and is - visible in the distance as far as mortal eye can see. It draws near - and nestles in the banks in the cool of the night, and leaves behind - it a silver trail, that gleams like the blade of a sword of Damascus. - But the blue river is once more asleep. Wonderful is the Dnieper then, - and there is nothing like it in the world! - - “But when the dark clouds gather in the sky, and the black wood is - shaken to its roots, the oak trees tremble, and the lightnings, - bursting in the clouds, light up the whole world again, terrible then - is the Dnieper. The crests of the waters thunder, dashing themselves - against the hills; fiery with lightning, and loud with many a moan, - they retreat and dissolve and overflow in tears in the distance. Just - in such a way does the aged mother of the Cossack weep when she goes - to say good-bye to her son, who is off to the wars. He rides off, - wanton, debonair, and full of spirit; he rides on his black horse with - his elbows well out at the side, and he waves his cap. And his mother - sobs and runs after him; she clutches hold of his stirrup, seizes the - snaffle, throws her arms round her son, and weeps bitterly.” - -Another characteristic description of Gogol’s is the picture he gives -us of the Steppes: - - “The farther they went, the more beautiful the Steppes became. At that - time the whole of the country which is now Lower New Russia, reaching - as far as the Black Sea, was a vast green wilderness. Never a plough - had passed over its measureless waves of wild grass. Only the horses, - which were hidden in it as though in a wood, trampled it down. Nothing - in Nature could be more beautiful than this grass. The whole of the - surface of the earth was like a gold and green sea, on which millions - of flowers of different colours were sprinkled. Through the high and - delicate stems of grass the cornflowers twinkled--light blue, dark - blue, and lilac. The yellow broom pushed upward its pointed crests; - the white milfoil, with its flowers like fairy umbrellas, dappled the - surface of the grass; an ear of wheat, which had come Heaven knows - whence, was ripening. - - “At the roots of the flowers and the grass, partridges were running - about everywhere, thrusting out their necks. The air was full of a - thousand different bird-notes. Hawks hovered motionless in the sky, - spreading out their wings, and fixing their eyes on the grass. The cry - of a flock of wild geese was echoed in I know not what far-off lake. A - gull rose from the grass in measured flight, and bathed wantonly in - the blue air; now she has vanished in the distance, and only a black - spot twinkles; and now she wheels in the air and glistens in the sun.” - -Of course, descriptions such as these lose all their beauty in -a translation, for Gogol’s language is rich and native; full of -diminutives and racial idiom, nervous and highly-coloured. To translate -it into English is like translating Rabelais into English. I have given -these two examples more to show the nature of the thing he describes -than the manner in which he describes it. - -Throughout this first collection of stories there is a blend of broad -farce and poetical fancy; we are introduced to the humours of the fair, -the adventures of sacristans with the devil and other apparitions; to -the Russalka, a naiad, a kind of land-mermaid, or Loreley, which haunts -the woods and the lakes. And every one of these stories smells of the -South Russian soil, and is overflowing with sunshine, good-humour, and -a mellow charm. This side of Russian life is not only wholly unknown -in Europe, but it is not even suspected. The picture most people have -in their minds of Russia is a place of grey skies and bleak monotonous -landscape, weighed down by an implacable climate. These things exist, -but there is another side as well, and it is this other side that -Gogol tells of in his early stories. We are told much about the -Russian winter, but who ever thinks of the Russian spring? And there -is nothing more beautiful in the world, even in the north and centre -of Russia, than the abrupt and sudden invasion of springtime which -comes shortly after the melting snows, when the woods are carpeted with -lilies-of-the-valley, and the green of the birch trees almost hurts the -eye with its brilliance. - -Nor are we told much about the Russian summer, with its wonderful warm -nights, nor of the pageant of the plains when they become a rippling -sea of golden corn. If the spring and the summer are striking in -northern and central Russia, much more is this so in the south, where -the whole character of the country is as cheerful and smiling as -that of Devonshire or Normandy. The farms are whitewashed and clean; -sometimes they are painted light blue or pink; vines grow on the walls; -there is an atmosphere of sunshine and laziness everywhere, accompanied -by much dancing and song. - -Once when I was in St. Petersburg I was talking to a peasant member of -the Duma who came from the south. After he had declaimed for nearly -twenty minutes on the terrible condition of the peasants in the -country, their needs, their wants, their misery, their ignorance, he -added thoughtfully: “All the same we have great fun in our village; -you ought to come and stay there. There is no such life in the world!” -The sunshine and laughter of the south of Russia rise before us -from every page of these stories of Gogol. Here, for instance, is a -description of a summer’s day in Little Russia, the day of a fair: - - “How intoxicating, how rich, is a summer’s day in Little Russia! How - overwhelmingly hot are those hours of noonday silence and haze! Like - a boundless azure sea, the dome of the sky, bending as though with - passion over the world, seems to have fallen asleep, all drowned in - softness, and clasps and caresses the beautiful earth with a celestial - embrace. There is no cloud in the sky; and the stream is silent. - Everything is as if it were dead; only aloft in the deeps of the sky - a lark quivers, and its silvery song echoes down the vault of heaven, - and reaches the lovesick earth. And from time to time the cry of the - seagull or the clear call of the quail is heard in the plain. - - “Lazily and thoughtlessly, as though they were idling vaguely, - stand the shady oaks; and the blinding rays of the sun light up the - picturesque masses of foliage, while the rest of the tree is in a - shadow dark as night, and only when the wind rises, a flash of gold - trembles across it. - - “Like emeralds, topazes and amethysts, the diaphanous insects flutter - in the many-coloured fruit gardens, which are shaded by stately - sun-flowers. Grey haycocks and golden sheaves of corn stand in rows - along the field like hillocks on the immense expanse. Broad boughs - bend under their load of cherries, plums, apples, and pears. The sky - is the transparent mirror of the day, and so is the river, with its - high green frame of trees.... How luscious and how soft is the summer - in Little Russia! - - “It was just such a hot day in August 18--, when the road, ten versts - from the little town of Sorochinetz, was seething with people hurrying - from all the farms, far and near, to the fair. With the break of day - an endless chain of waggons laboured along, carrying salt and fish. - Mountains of pots wrapped in hay moved slowly on as if they were - weary of being cut off from the sunshine. Only here and there some - brightly-painted soup tureen or earthenware saucepan proudly emerged - on the tilt of the high-heaped waggon, and attracted the eyes of - lovers of finery; many passers-by looked with envy on the tall potter, - the owner of all these treasures, who with slow steps walked beside - his goods.” - -Why are we never told of these azure Russian days, of these laden -fruit-trees and jewelled insects? - -In 1832, Gogol published a continuation of this series, entitled -_Stories of Mirgorod_. This collection contains the masterpieces of -the romantic, and the fantastic side of Gogol’s genius. His highest -effort in the romantic province is the historical history of _Taras -Bulba_, which is a prose epic. It is the tale of an old Cossack -chieftain whose two sons, Ostap and Andrii, are brought up in the -Zaporozhian settlement of the Cossacks, and trained as warriors to -fight the Poles. They lay siege to the Polish city of Dubno, and starve -the city. Andrii, the younger son, discovers that a girl whom he had -loved at Kiev, before his Cossack training, is shut up in the city. The -girl’s servant leads him into Dubno by an underground passage. Andrii -meets his lady-love and abandons the Cossack cause, saying that his -fatherland and his country is there where his heart is. - -In the meantime the Polish troops arrive, reinforce the beleagured -garrison; Andrii is for ever lost to Cossack chivalry, and his country -and his father’s house shall know him no more. News then comes that in -the absence of the Cossacks from their camp in the Ukraine, the Tartars -have plundered it. So they send half their army to defend it, while -half of it remains in front of the besieged city. The Poles attack the -Cossacks who are left. - -There is a terrific battle, in which Andrii fights against the -Cossacks. He is taken prisoner by his own father, who bids him -dismount. He dismounts obediently, and his father addresses him thus: -“I begot you, and now I shall kill you.” And he shoots him dead. - -Immediately after this incident Taras Bulba and his elder son, Ostap, -are attacked by the enemy. Ostap, after inflicting deadly losses on -the enemy, is separated from his father,--who falls in a swoon, and -owing to this escapes,--and taken prisoner. Ostap is taken to the city -and tortured to death. In the extremity of his torment, after having -endured the long agonies without a groan, he cries out: “Father, do you -hear me?” And from the crowd a terrible voice is heard answering: “I -hear!” Later, Taras raises an army of Cossacks to avenge the death of -his son, and lays waste the country; but at the end he is caught and -put to death by the Poles. - -This story is told with epic breadth and simplicity; the figure of the -old warrior is Homeric, and Homeric also is the character of the young -traitor Andrii, who, although he betrays his own people, never loses -sympathy, so strong is the impression you receive of his brilliance, -his dash, and his courage. - -In the domain of fantasy, Gogol’s masterpiece is to be found in this -same collection. It is called _Viy_. It is the story of a beautiful -lady who is a witch. She casts her spell on a student in theology, and -when she dies, her dying will is that he shall spend three nights -in reading prayers over her body, in the church where her coffin -lies. During his watch on the first night, the dead maiden rises from -her coffin, and watches him with glassy, opaque eyes. He hears the -flapping of the wings of innumerable birds, and in the morning is found -half dead from terror. He attempts to avoid the ordeal on the second -night, but the girl’s father, an old Cossack, forces him to carry out -his daughter’s behest, and three nights are spent by the student in -terrible conflict with the witch. On the third night he dies. The great -quality of this story is the atmosphere of overmastering terror that it -creates. - -With these two stories, _Taras Bulba_ and _Viy_, Gogol took leave -of Romanticism and Fantasy, and started on the path of Realism. In -this province he was what the Germans call a _bahnbrecher_, and he -discovered a new kingdom. It may be noticed that Gogol, roughly -speaking, began where Dickens ended; that is to say, he wrote his -_Tale of Two Cities_ first, and his _Pickwick_ last. But already -in this collection of Mirgorod tales there are two stories in the -humorous realistic vein, which Gogol never excelled; one is called -_Old-fashioned Landowners_, and the other _How Ivan Ivanovitch -quarreled with Ivan Nikiforovitch_. - -_Old-fashioned Landowners_ is a simple story. It is about an old -couple who lived in a low-roofed little house, with a verandah of -blackened tree-trunks, in the midst of a garden of dwarfed fruit-trees -covered with cherries and plums. The couple, Athanasii Ivanovitch and -his wife Pulcheria Ivanovna, are old. He is sixty, she is fifty-five. -It is the story of Philemon and Baucis. Nothing happens in it, except -that we are introduced to these charming, kind, and hospitable people; -that Pulcheria dies, and that after her death everything in the house -becomes untidy and slovenly, because Athanasii cannot live without -her; and after five years he follows her to the grave, and is buried -beside her. There is nothing in the story, and there is everything. It -is amusing, charming, and infinitely pathetic. Some of the touches of -description remind one strongly of Dickens. Here, for instance, is a -description of the doors of the house where the old couple lived: - - “The most remarkable thing about the house was the creaking of the - doors. As soon as day broke, the singing of these doors was heard - throughout the whole house. I cannot say why they made the noise: - either it was the rusty hinges, or else the workman who made them - hid some secret in them; but the remarkable thing was that each door - had its own special note. The door going into the bedroom sang in a - delicate treble; the door going into the dining-room had a hoarse - bass note; but that which led into the front hall made a strange - trembling, groaning noise, so that if you listened to it intently you - heard it distinctly saying, ‘Batiushka, I am so cold!’” - -The story of the two Ivans is irresistibly funny. The two Ivans were -neighbours; one of them was a widower and the other a bachelor. They -were the greatest friends. Never a day passed without their seeing each -other, and their greatest pleasure was to entertain each other at big, -Dickens-like meals. But one day they quarrelled about a gun, and Ivan -Nikiforovitch called Ivan Ivanovitch a goose. After this they would not -see each other, and their relations were broken off. Hitherto, Ivan -Nikiforovitch and Ivan Ivanovitch had sent every day to inquire about -each other’s health, had conversed together from their balconies, and -had said charming things to each other. On Sundays they had gone to -church arm in arm, and outdone each other in mutual civilities; but now -they would not look at each other. - -At length the quarrel went so far that Ivan Ivanovitch lodged a -complaint against Ivan Nikiforovitch, saying that the latter had -inflicted a deadly insult on his personal honour, firstly by calling -him a goose, secondly by building a goose-shed opposite his porch, -and thirdly by cherishing a design to burn his house down. Ivan -Nikiforovitch lodged a similar petition against Ivan Ivanovitch. -As bad luck would have it, Ivan Ivanovitch’s brown sow ate Ivan -Nikiforovitch’s petition, and this, of course, made the quarrel worse. - -At last a common friend of the pair attempts to bring about a -reconciliation, and asks the two enemies to dinner. After much -persuasion they consent to meet. They go to the dinner, where a large -company is assembled; both Ivans eat their meal without glancing at -each other, and as soon as the dinner is over they rise from their -seats and make ready to go. At this moment they are surrounded on all -sides, and are adjured by the company to forget their quarrel. Each -says that he was innocent of any evil design, and the reconciliation is -within an ace of being effected when, unfortunately, Ivan Nikiforovitch -says to Ivan Ivanovitch: “Permit me to observe, in a friendly manner, -that you took offence because I called you a goose.” As soon as the -fatal word “goose” is uttered, all reconciliation is out of the -question, and the quarrel continues to the end of their lives. - -In 1835, Gogol retired definitely from the public service. At this -point of his career he wrote a number of stories and comedies, of a -varied nature, which he collected later in two volumes, _Arabesques_, -1834, and _Tales_, 1836. It was the dawn of his realistic phase, -although he still indulged from time to time in the fantastic, as in -the grotesque stories, _The Nose_--the tale of a nose which gets lost -and wanders about--and _The Coach_. But the most remarkable of these -stories is _The Overcoat_, which is the highest example of Gogol’s -pathos, and contains in embryo all the qualities of vivid realism which -he was to develop later. It is the story of a clerk who has a passion -for copying, and to whom caligraphy is a fine art. He is never warm -enough; he is always shivering. The ambition, the dream of his life, is -to have a warm overcoat. After years of privation he saves up the sum -necessary to realise his dream and buy a new overcoat; but on the first -day that he wears it, the coat is stolen from him. - -The police, to whom he applies after the theft, laugh at him, and the -clerk falls into a black melancholy. He dies unnoticed and obscure, and -his ghost haunts the squalid streets where he was wont to walk. - -Nearly half of modern Russian literature descends directly from this -story. The figure of this clerk and the way he is treated by the author -is the first portrait of an endless gallery of the failures of this -world, the flotsam and jetsam of a social system: grotesque figures, -comic, pathetic, with a touch of tragedy in them, which, since they -are handled by their creator with a kindly sympathy, and never with -cruelty or disdain, win our sympathy and live in our hearts and our -affections. - -During this same period Gogol wrote several plays, among which the -masterpiece is _The Inspector_. This play, which is still immensely -popular in Russia, and draws crowded houses on Sundays and holidays, -is a good-humoured, scathing satire on the Russian Bureaucracy. As -a translation of this play is easily to be obtained, and as it has -been performed in London by the Stage Society, I need not dwell on -it here, except to mention for those who are unacquainted with it, -that the subject of the play is a misunderstanding which arises from -a traveller being mistaken for a government inspector who is expected -to arrive incognito in a provincial town. A European critic in reading -or seeing this play is sometimes surprised and unreasonably struck -by the universal dishonesty of almost every single character in the -play. For instance, one of the characters says to another: “You are -stealing above your rank.” One should remember, however, that in a -translation it is impossible not to lose something of the good-humour -and the comic spirit of which the play is full. It has often been a -matter of surprise that this play, at the time when Gogol wrote it, -should have been passed by the censorship. The reason of this is that -Gogol had for censor the Emperor of Russia himself, who read the play, -was extremely amused by it, commanded its immediate performance, was -present at the first night, and led the applause. - -Hlestakov, the hero of _The Inspector_, is one of the most natural -and magnificent liars in literature. Gogol himself, in his stage -directions, describes him as a man “without a Tsar in his head,”--a man -who speaks and acts without the slightest reflection, and who is not -capable of consecutive thought, or of fixing his attention for more -than a moment on any single idea. - -In 1836, Gogol left Russia and settled in Rome. He had been working for -some time at another book, which he intended should be his masterpiece, -a book in which he intended to say _everything_, and express the whole -of his message. Gogol was possessed by this idea. The book was to be -divided into three parts. The first part appeared in 1842, the second -part, which was never finished, Gogol threw in the fire in a fit of -despair. It was, however, subsequently printed from an incomplete -manuscript which had escaped his notice. The third part was never -written. As it is, the first fragment of Gogol’s great ambition remains -his masterpiece, and the book by which he is best known. It is called -_Dead Souls_. The hero of this book is a man called Chichikov. He has -hit on an idea by which he can make money by dishonest means. Like all -great ideas, it is simple. At the time at which the book was written -the serfs in Russia had not yet been emancipated. They were called -“souls,” and every landlord possessed so many “souls.” A revision of -the list of peasants took place every ten years, and the landlord had -to pay a poll-tax for the souls that had died during that period, that -is to say, for the men; women and children did not count. Between -the periods of revision nobody looked at the lists. If there was -any epidemic in the village the landlord lost heavily, as he had to -continue paying a tax for the “souls” who were dead. - -Chichikov’s idea was to take these “dead souls” from the landlords, -and pay the poll-tax, for them. The landlord would be only too pleased -to get rid of a property which was fictitious, and a tax which was -only too real. Chichikov could then register his purchases with all -due formality, for it would never occur to a tribunal to think that he -was asking them to legalise a sale of dead men; he could thus take the -documents to a bank at St. Petersburg or at Moscow, and mortgage the -“souls,” which he represented as living in some desert place in the -Crimea, at one hundred roubles apiece, and then be rich enough to buy -living “souls” of his own. - -Chichikov travelled all over Russia in search of “dead souls.” The book -tells us the adventures he met with; and the scheme is particularly -advantageous to the author, because it not only enables him to -introduce us to a variety of types, but the transaction itself, the -manner in which men behave when faced by the proposition, throws -a searchlight on their characters. Chichikov starts from a large -provincial town, which he makes his base, and thence explores the -country; the success or failure of his transactions forms the substance -of the book. Sometimes he is successful, sometimes the system breaks -down because the people in the country want to know the market value of -the “dead souls” in the town. - -The travels of Chichikov, like those of Mr. Pickwick, form a kind of -Odyssey. The types he introduces us to are extraordinarily comic; -there are fools who give their “souls” for nothing, and misers who -demand an exorbitant price for them. But sometimes Chichikov meets -with people who are as clever as himself, and who outwit him. One of -the most amusing episodes is that where he comes across a suspicious -old woman called Korobotchka. Chichikov, after arriving at her house -late at night, and having spent the night there, begins his business -transactions cautiously and tentatively. The old woman at first thinks -he has come to sell her tea, or that he has come to buy honey. Then -Chichikov comes to the point, and asks her if any peasants have died -on her land. She says eighteen. He then asks her to sell them to him, -saying that he will give her money for them. She asks if he wishes to -dig them out of the ground. He explains that the transaction would only -take place upon paper. She asks him why he wants to do this. That, he -answers, is his own affair. - -“But they are dead,” she says. - -“Whoever said they were alive?” asked Chichikov. “It is a loss to you -that they are dead. You pay for them, and I will now save you the -trouble and the expense, and not only save you this, but give you -fifteen roubles into the bargain. Is it clear now?” - -“I really can’t say,” the old woman replies. “You see I never before -sold _dead_ ‘souls.’” And she keeps on repeating: “What bothers me is -that they are _dead_.” - -Chichikov again explains to her that she has to pay a tax on them just -as though they were alive. - -“Don’t talk of it!” she says. “Only a week ago I had to pay one hundred -and fifty roubles.” - -Chichikov again explains to her how advantageous it would be for her to -get them off her hands, upon which she answers that she has never had -occasion to sell dead souls; if they were alive, on the other hand, she -would have been delighted to do it. - -“But I don’t want live ones! I want dead ones,” answers Chichikov. - -“I am afraid,” she says, “that I might lose over the bargain--that you -may be deceiving me.” - -Chichikov explains the whole thing over again, offering her fifteen -roubles, and showing her the money; upon which she says she would like -to wait a little, to find out what they are really worth. - -“But who on earth will buy them from you?” asks Chichikov. - -“They might be useful on the estate,” says the old woman. - -“How can you use dead souls on the estate?” asks Chichikov. - -Korobotchka suggests that she would rather sell him some hemp, and -Chichikov loses his temper. - -Equally amusing are Chichikov’s adventures with the miser Plushkin, -Nozdref, a swaggering drunkard, and Manilov, who is simply a fool. -But when all is said and done, the most amusing person in the book is -Chichikov himself. - -At the end of the first volume, Gogol makes a defence of his -hero. After having described the circumstances of his youth, his -surroundings, and all the influences which made him what he was, the -author asks: “Who is he?” And the answer he gives himself is: “Of -course a rascal: but why a rascal?” He continues: - - “Why should we be so severe on others? We have no rascals among us - now, we have only well-thinking, pleasant people; we have, it is true, - two or three men who have enjoyed the shame of being thrashed in - public, and even these speak of virtue. It would be more just to call - him a man who acquires; it is the passion for gain that is to blame - for everything. This passion is the cause of deeds which the world - characterises as ugly. It is true that in such a character there is - perhaps something repulsive. But the same reader who in real life will - be friends with such a man, who will dine with him, and pass the time - pleasantly with him, will look askance at the same character should - he meet with him as the hero of a book or of a poem. That man is wise - who is not offended by any character, but is able to look within it, - and to trace the development of nature to its first causes. Everything - in man changes rapidly. You have scarcely time to look round, before - inside the man’s heart a hateful worm has been born which absorbs - the vital sap of his nature. And it often happens that not only a - great passion, but some ridiculous whim for a trivial object, grows - in a man who was destined to better deeds, and causes him to forget - his high and sacred duty, and to mistake the most miserable trifle - for what is most exalted and most holy. The passions of mankind are - as countless as the sands of the sea, and each of them is different - from the others; and all of them, mean or beautiful, start by being - subject to man, and afterwards become his most inexorable master. - Happy is the man who has chosen for himself a higher passion ... but - there are passions which are not chosen by man: they are with him - from the moment of his birth, and strength is not given him to free - himself from them. These passions are ordered according to a high - plan, and there is something in them which eternally and incessantly - summons him, and which lasts as long as life lasts. They have a great - work to accomplish; whether they be sombre or whether they be bright, - their purpose is to work for an ultimate good which is beyond the ken - of man. And perhaps in this same Chichikov the ruling passion which - governs him is not of his choosing, and in his cold existence there - may be something which will one day cause us to humble ourselves on - our knees and in the dust before the Divine wisdom.” - -I quote this passage at length because it not only explains the point -of view of Gogol towards his creation, but also that which nearly -all Russian authors and novelists hold with regard to mankind in -general. Gogol’s _Dead Souls_ is an extremely funny book; it is full -of delightful situations, comic characters and situations. At the -same time it has often struck people as being a sad book. When Gogol -read out to Pushkin the first chapter, Pushkin, who at other times -had always laughed when Gogol read his work to him, became sadder and -sadder, and said when Gogol had reached the end: “What a sad country -Russia is!” - -It is true, as Gogol himself says at the end of the first volume of -_Dead Souls_, that there is probably not one of his readers who, -after an honest self-examination, will not wonder whether he has not -something of Chichikov in himself. And if at such a moment such a man -should meet an acquaintance in the street, whose rank is neither too -exalted for criticism nor too obscure for notice, he will nudge his -companion, and say with a chuckle: “There goes Chichikov!” Perhaps -every Russian feels that there is something of Chichikov in him, and -Chichikov is a rascal, and most of the other characters in _Dead Souls_ -are rascals also; people who try to cheat their neighbours, and feel no -moral scruples or remorse after they have done so. But in spite of all -this, the impression that remains with one after reading the book is -not one of bitterness or of melancholy. For in all the characters there -is a vast amount of good-nature and of humanity. Also, as Gogol has -pointed out in the passage quoted above, the peculiar blend of faults -and qualities on which moralists may be severe, may be a special part -of the Divine scheme. - -However this may be, what strikes the casual student most when he has -read _Dead Souls_, is that Gogol is the only Russian author who has -given us in literature the universal type of Russian; the Russian “man -in the street.” Tolstoy has depicted the upper classes. Dostoievsky -has reached the innermost depths of the Russian soul in its extremest -anguish and at its highest pitch. Tourgeniev has fixed on the canvas -several striking portraits, which suffer from the defect either -of being caricatures, or of being too deeply dyed in the writer’s -pessimism and self-consciousness. Gorky has painted in lurid colours -one side of the common people. Andreev has given us the nightmares -of the younger generation. Chekov has depicted the pessimism and the -ineffectiveness of the “intelligenzia.”[6] But nobody except Gogol -has given us the ordinary cheerful Russian man in the street, with -his crying faults, his attractive good qualities, and his overflowing -human nature. In fact, it is the work of Gogol that explains the -attraction which the Russian character and the Russian country exercise -over people who have come beneath their influence. At first sight -the thing seems inexplicable. The country seems ugly, dreary and -monotonous, without art, without beauty and without brilliance; the -climate is either fiercely cold and damp, or excruciatingly dry and -hot; the people are slow and heavy; there is a vast amount of dirt, -dust, disorder, untidiness, slovenliness, squalor, and sordidness -everywhere; and yet in spite of all this, even a foreigner who has -lived in Russia (not to speak of the Russians themselves), and who has -once come in contact with its people, can never be quite free from its -over-mastering charm, and the secret fascination of the country. - -In another passage towards the end of _Dead Souls_, Gogol writes about -this very thing as follows: - - “Russia” (he writes), “I see you from the beautiful ‘far away’ where - I am. Everything in you is miserable, disordered and inhospitable. - There are no emphatic miracles of Nature to startle the eye, graced - with equally startling miracles of art. There are no towns with high, - many-windowed castles perched on the top of crags; there are no - picturesque trees, no ivy-covered houses beside the ceaseless thunder - and foam of waterfalls. One never strains one’s neck back to look at - the piled-up rocky crags soaring endlessly into the sky. There never - shines, through dark and broken arches overgrown with grapes, ivy, - and a million wild roses,--there never shines, I say, from afar the - eternal line of gleaming mountains standing out against transparent - and silver skies. Everything in you is open and desert and level; like - dots, your squatting towns lie almost unobserved in the midst of the - plains. There is nothing to flatter or to charm the eye. What then is - the secret and incomprehensible power which lies hidden in you? Why - does your aching melancholy song, which wanders throughout the length - and breadth of you, from sea to sea, sound and echo unceasingly in - one’s ears? What is there in this song? What is there that calls and - sobs and captures the heart? What are the sounds which hurt as they - kiss, pierce my very inmost soul and flood my heart? Russia, what do - you want of me? What inexplicable bond is there between you and me?” - -Gogol does not answer the question, and if he cannot put his finger -on the secret it would be difficult for any one else to do so. -But although he does not answer the question directly, he does so -indirectly by his works. Any one who reads Gogol’s early stories, even -_Dead Souls_, will understand the inexplicable fascination hidden -in a country which seems at first sight so devoid of outward and -superficial attraction, and in a people whose defects are so obvious -and unconcealed. The charm of Russian life lies in its essential -goodness of heart, and in its absence of hypocrisy, and it is owing to -this absence of hypocrisy that the faults of the Russian character are -so easy to detect. It is for this reason that in Gogol’s realistic and -satirical work, as in _The Inspector_ and _Dead Souls_, the characters -startle the foreign observer by their frank and almost universal -dishonesty. The truth is that they do not take the trouble to conceal -their shortcomings; they are indulgent to the failings of others, and -not only expect but know that they will find their own faults treated -with similar indulgence. Faults, failings, and vices which in Western -Europe would be regarded with uncompromising censure and merciless -blame, meet in Russia either with pity or good-humoured indulgence. - -This happy-go-lucky element, the good-natured indulgence and scepticism -with which Russians regard many things which we consider of grave -import, are, no doubt, to a great extent the cause of the evils which -exist in the administrative system of the country--the cause of nearly -all the evils of which Russian reformers so bitterly complain. On the -other hand, it should not be forgotten that this same good-humour -and this same indulgence, the results of which in public life are -slackness, disorder, corruption, irresponsibility and arbitrariness, -in private life produce results of a different nature, such as pity, -charity, hospitality and unselfishness; for the good-humour and the -good-nature of the Russian proceed directly from goodness, and from -nothing else. - -Gogol never finished _Dead Souls_. He went on working on the second -and third parts of it until the end of his life, in 1852; and he twice -threw the work, when it was completed, into the fire. All we possess is -an incomplete copy of a manuscript of the second part, which escaped -destruction. He had intended the second part to be more serious than -the first; his ambition was to work out the moral regeneration of -Chichikov, and in doing so to attain to a full and complete expression -of his ideals and his outlook on life. The ambition pursued and -persecuted him like a feverish dream, and not being able to realise -it, he turned back upon himself and was driven inward. His nature was -religious to the core, since it was based on a firm and unshaken belief -in Providence; and there came a time when he began to experience that -distaste of the world which ultimately leads to a man becoming an -ascetic and a recluse. - -He lived in Rome, isolated from the world; he became consumed with -religious zeal; he preached to his friends and acquaintances the -Christian virtues of humility, resignation and charity; he urged them -not to resist authority, but to become contrite Christians. And in -order that the world should hear him, in 1847 he published passages -from a correspondence with friends. In these letters Gogol insisted on -the paramount necessity of spiritual life; but instead of attacking the -Church he defended it, and preached submission both to it and to the -Government. - -The book created a sensation, and raised a storm of abuse. Some of -the prominent Liberals were displeased. It was, of course, easy for -them to attack Gogol; for here, they said, was the man who had, more -than any other, satirised and discredited the Russian Government and -Russian administration, coming forward as an apostle of orthodoxy -and officialdom. The intellectual world scorned him as a mystic, -and considered the matter settled; but if the word “mystic” had the -significance which these people seem to have attached to it, then -Gogol was not a mystic. There was nothing extravagant or uncommon in -his religion. He gave up writing, and devoted himself to religion and -good works; but this does not constitute what the intellectuals seem to -have meant by mysticism. Mysticism with them was equivalent to madness. -If, on the other hand, we mean by mysticism the transcendent common -sense which recognises a Divine order of things, and the reality of an -invisible world, then Gogol was a mystic. Therefore, when Gogol ceased -to write stories, he no more _became_ a mystic than did Pascal when he -ceased going into society, or than Racine did when he ceased to write -plays. In the other sense of the word he was a mystic all his life; so -was Racine. - -At the age of thirty-three his creative faculties had dried up, and at -the age of forty-three, in February 1852, he died of typhoid fever. -The place of Gogol in Russian literature is a very high one. Prosper -Mérimée places him among the best _English_ humorists. Gogol’s European -reputation is less great than it should be, because his subject-matter -is more remote. But of all the Russian prose writers of the last -century, Gogol is perhaps the most national. His work smells of the -soil of Russia; there is nothing imitative or foreign about it. When he -published _The Inspector_, the motto which he appended to it was: “If -your mouth is crooked, don’t blame the looking-glass.” He was a great -humorist. He was also a great satirist. He was a penetrating but not -a pitiless observer; in his fun and his humour, there is often a note -of sadness, an accent of pathos, and a tinge of wistful melancholy. -His pathos and his laughter are closely allied one to another, but in -his sadness there is neither bitterness nor gloom; there is no shadow -of the powers of darkness, no breath of the icy terror which blows -through the works of Tolstoy; there is no hint of the emptiness and the -void, or of a fear of them. There is nothing akin to despair. For his -whole outlook on life is based on faith in Providence, and the whole of -his morality consists in Christian charity, and in submission to the -Divine. - -In one of his lectures, Gogol, speaking of Pushkin, singles out, as -one of the qualities of Russian literature, the pity for all who are -unfortunate. This, he says, is a truly Russian characteristic. - -“Think,” he writes, “of that touching spectacle which our people afford -when they visit the exiles who are starting for Siberia, when every man -brings something, either food or money, or a kind word. There is here -no hatred of the criminal; no quixotic wish to make him a hero, or to -ask for his autograph or his portrait, or to regard him as an object of -morbid curiosity, as often happens in more civilised Europe. Here there -is something more: it is not the desire to whitewash him, or to deliver -him from the hands of the law, but to comfort his broken spirit, and to -console him as a brother comforts a brother, or as Christ ordered us to -console each other.” - -This sense of pity is the greatest gift that the Russian nation -possesses: it is likewise the cardinal factor of Russian literature, -as well as its most precious asset; the inestimable legacy and -contribution which Russian authors have made to the literature of the -world. It is a thing which the Russians and no other people have given -us. There is no better way of judging of this quality and of estimating -its results, than to study the works of Russia’s greatest humorist, -satirist, and realist. For if realism can be so vivid without being -cruel, if satire can be so cruel without being bitter, and a sense of -the ridiculous so broad and so strong without being ill-natured, the -soil of goodness out of which these things all grow must indeed be rich -and deep, and the streams of pity with which it is watered must indeed -be plentiful. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[5] I met a Russian doctor in Manchuria, who knew pages of a Russian -translation of _Three Men in a Boat_ by heart. - -[6] The highly educated professional middle class. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -TOLSTOY AND TOURGENIEV - - -The eightieth birthday of Count Tolstoy, which was celebrated in -Russia on August 28 (old style), 1908, was closely followed by the -twenty-fifth anniversary of the death of Tourgeniev, who died on -September 3, 1883, at the age of sixty-five. These two anniversaries -followed close upon the publication of a translation into English of -the complete works of Count Tolstoy by Professor Wiener; and it is -not long ago that a new edition of the complete works of Tourgeniev, -translated into English by Mrs. Garnett, appeared. Both these -translations have been made with great care, and are faithful and -accurate. Thirty years ago it is certain that European critics, and -probable that Russian critics, would have observed, in commenting on -the concurrence of these two events, that Tolstoy and Tourgeniev were -the two giants of modern Russian literature. Is the case the same -to-day? Is it still true that, in the opinion of Russia and of Europe, -the names of Tolstoy and Tourgeniev stand pre-eminently above all their -contemporaries? - -With regard to Tolstoy the question can be answered without the -slightest hesitation. Time, which has inflicted such mournful damage -on so many great reputations in the last twenty-five years, has not -only left the fame of Tolstoy’s masterpieces unimpaired, but has -increased our sense of their greatness. The question arises, whose work -forms the complement to that of Tolstoy, and shares his undisputed -dominion of modern Russian literature? Is it Tourgeniev? In Russia at -the present day the answer would be “No,” it is not Tourgeniev. And -in Europe, students of Russian literature who are acquainted with the -Russian language--as we see in M. Emile Haumant’s study of Tourgeniev’s -life and work, and in Professor Brückner’s history of Russian -literature--would also answer in the negative, although their denial -would be less emphatic and not perhaps unqualified. - -The other giant, the complement of Tolstoy, almost any Russian -critic of the present day without hesitation would pronounce to be -Dostoievsky; and the foreign critic who is thoroughly acquainted with -Dostoievsky’s work cannot but agree with him. I propose to go more -fully into the question of the merits and demerits of Dostoievsky later -on; but it is impossible not to mention him here, because the very -existence of his work powerfully affects our judgment when we come to -look at that of his contemporaries. We can no more ignore his presence -and his influence than we could ignore the presence of a colossal -fresco by Leonardo da Vinci in a room in which there were only two -other religious pictures, one by Rembrandt and one by Vandyck. For -any one who is familiar with Dostoievsky, and has felt his tremendous -influence, cannot look at the work of his contemporaries with the same -eyes as before. To such a one, the rising of Dostoievsky’s red and -troubled planet, while causing the rays of Tourgeniev’s serene star -to pale, leaves the rays of Tolstoy’s orb undiminished and undimmed. -Tolstoy and Dostoievsky shine in the firmament of Russian literature -like two planets, one of them as radiant as the planet Jupiter, the -other as ominous as the planet Mars. Beside either of these the light -of Tourgeniev twinkles, pure indeed, and full of pearly lustre, like -the moon faintly seen in the east at the end of an autumnal day. - - * * * * * - -It is rash to make broad generalisations. They bring with them a -certain element of exaggeration which must be discounted. Nevertheless -I believe that I am stating a fundamental truth in saying that the -Russian character can, roughly speaking, be divided into two types, and -these two types dominate the whole of Russian literature. The first is -that which I shall call, for want of a better name, Lucifer, the fallen -angel. The second type is that of the hero of all Russian folk-tales, -Ivan Durak, Ivan the Fool, or the Little Fool. There are innumerable -folk-tales in Russian which tell the adventures of Ivan the Fool, who, -by his very simplicity and foolishness, outwits the wisdom of the -world. This type is characteristic of one Russian ideal. The simple -fool is venerated in Russia as something holy. It is acknowledged that -his childish innocence is more precious than the wisdom of the wise. -Ivan Durak may be said to be the hero of all Dostoievsky’s novels. He -is the aim and ideal of Dostoievsky’s life, an aim and ideal which he -fully achieves. He is also the aim and ideal of Tolstoy’s teaching, but -an aim and ideal which Tolstoy recommends to others and only partly -achieves himself. - -The first type I have called, for want of a better name, since I can -find no concrete symbol of it in Russian folk-lore, Lucifer, the fallen -angel. This type is the embodiment of stubborn and obdurate pride, the -spirit which cannot bend; such is Milton’s Satan, with his - - “Courage never to submit or yield, - And what is else not to be overcome.” - -This type is also widely prevalent in Russia, although it cannot be -said to be a popular type, embodied, like Ivan the Fool, in a national -symbol. One of the most striking instances of this, the Lucifer -type, which I have come across, was a peasant called Nazarenko, who -was a member of the first Duma. He was a tall, powerfully built, -rugged-looking man, spare and rather thin, with clear-cut prominent -features, black penetrating eyes, and thick black tangled hair. He -looked as if he had stepped out of a sacred picture by Velasquez. This -man had the pride of Lucifer. There was at that time, in July 1905, -an Inter-parliamentary Congress sitting in London. Five delegates of -the Russian Duma were chosen to represent Russia. It was proposed that -Nazarenko should represent the peasants. I asked him once if he were -going. He answered: - -“I shan’t go unless I am unanimously chosen by the others. I have -written down my name and asked, but I shall not ask twice. I never ask -twice for anything. When I say my prayers, I only ask God once for -a thing, and if it is not granted, I never ask again. So it is not -likely I would ask my fellow-men twice for anything. I am like that. I -leave out that passage in the prayers about being a miserable slave. I -am not a miserable slave, either of man or of Heaven.” - -Such a man recognises no authority, human or divine. Indeed he not only -refuses to acknowledge authority, but it will be difficult for him to -admire or bow down to any of those men or ideas which the majority have -agreed to believe worthy of admiration, praise, or reverence. - -Now, while Dostoievsky is the incarnation of the first type, of Ivan -the Fool, Tolstoy is the incarnation of the second. It is true that, at -a certain stage of his career, Tolstoy announced to the world that the -ideal of Ivan Durak was the only ideal worth following. He perceives -this aim with clearness, and, in preaching it, he has made a multitude -of disciples; the only thing he has never been able to do is to make -the supreme submission, the final surrender, and to become the type -himself. - - * * * * * - -We know everything about Tolstoy, not only from the biographical -writings of Fet and Behrs, but from his own autobiography, his novels, -and his _Confession_. He gives us a panorama of events down to the -smallest detail of his long career, as well as of every phase of -feeling, and every shade and mood of his spiritual existence. The -English reader who wishes to be acquainted with all the important -facts of Tolstoy’s material and spiritual life cannot do better than -read Mr. Aylmer Maude’s _Life of Tolstoy_, which compresses into one -well-planned and admirably executed volume all that is of interest -during the first fifty years of Tolstoy’s career. In reading this -book a phrase of Tourgeniev’s occurs to one. “Man is the same, from -the cradle to the grave.” Tolstoy had been called inconsistent; but -the student of his life and work, far from finding inconsistency, -will rather be struck by the unvarying and obstinate consistency of -his ideas. Here, for instance, is an event recorded in Tolstoy’s -_Confession_ (p. 1): - - “I remember how, when I was about eleven, a boy, Vladimir Miliutin, - long since dead, visited us one Sunday, and announced as the latest - novelty a discovery made at his school. The discovery was that there - is no God at all, and all we are taught about Him is a mere invention. - I remember how interested my elder brothers were in this news. They - called me to their council, and we all, I remember, became animated, - and accepted the news as something very interesting and fully - possible.” - -There is already the germ of the man who was afterwards to look with -such independent eyes on the accepted beliefs and ideas of mankind, -to play havoc with preconceived opinions, and to establish to his own -satisfaction whether what was true for others was true for himself or -not. Later he says: - - “I was baptized and brought up in the Orthodox Christian faith. I was - taught it in childhood and all through my boyhood and youth. Before I - left the university, in my second year, at the age of eighteen, I no - longer believed anything I had been taught.”[7] - -A Russian writer, M. Kurbski, describes how, when he first met Tolstoy, -he was overwhelmed by the look in Tolstoy’s eyes. They were more than -eyes, he said; they were like electric searchlights, which penetrated -into the depths of your mind, and, like a photographic lens, seized and -retained for ever a positive picture. In his _Childhood and Youth_, -Tolstoy gives us the most vivid, the most natural, the most sensitive -picture of childhood and youth that has ever been penned by the hand of -man. And yet, after reading it, one is left half-unconsciously with the -impression that the author feels there is something wrong, something -unsatisfactory behind it all. - -Tolstoy then passes on to describe the life of a grown-up man, in _The -Morning of a Landowner_, in which he tells how he tried to work in his -own home, on his property, and to teach the peasants, and how nothing -came of his experiments. And again we have the feeling of something -unsatisfactory, and something wanting, something towards which the man -is straining, and which escapes him. - -A little later, Tolstoy goes to the Caucasus, to the war, where life -is primitive and simple, where he is nearer to nature, and where man -himself is more natural. And then we have _The Cossacks_, in which -Tolstoy’s searchlights are thrown upon the primitive life of the old -huntsman, the Cossack, Yeroshka, who lives as the grass lives, without -care, without grief, and without reflection. Once more we feel that the -soul of the writer is dissatisfied, still searching for something he -has not found. - -In 1854, Tolstoy took part in the Crimean War, which supplied him with -the stuff for what are perhaps the most truthful pictures of war that -have ever been written. But even here, we feel he has not yet found -his heart’s desire. Something is wrong. He was recommended for the St. -George’s Cross, but owing to his being without some necessary official -document at the time of his recommendation, he failed to receive it. -This incident is a symbol of the greater failure, the failure to -achieve the inward happiness that he is seeking--a solid ground to -tread on, a bridge to the infinite, a final place of peace. In his -private diary there is an entry made at the commencement of the war, -while he was at Silistria, which runs as follows: - - “I have no modesty; that is my great defect.... I am ugly, awkward, - uncleanly, and lack society education. I am irritable, a bore to - others, not modest; intolerant, and as shamefaced as a child.... I am - almost an ignoramus. What I do know I have learnt anyhow, by myself, - in snatches, without sequence, without a plan, and it amounts to very - little. I am incontinent, undecided, inconstant, and stupidly vain - and vehement, like all characterless people. I am not brave.... I am - clever, but my cleverness has as yet not been thoroughly tested on - anything.... I am honest; that is to say, I love goodness.... There - is a thing I love more than goodness, and that is fame. I am so - ambitious, and so little has this feeling been gratified, that, should - I have to choose between fame and goodness, I fear I may often choose - the former. Yes, I am not modest, and therefore I am proud at heart, - shamefaced, and shy in society.” - -At the time that Tolstoy wrote this he was a master, as Mr. Aylmer -Maude points out, of the French and German languages, besides having -some knowledge of English, Latin, Arabic, and Turco-Tartar. He had -published stories which had caused the editors of the best Russian -magazines to offer him the rate of pay accorded to the best-known -writers. Therefore his discontent with his position, both intellectual -and social, was in reality quite unfounded. - -After the Crimean War, Tolstoy went abroad. He found nothing in Western -Europe to satisfy him. On his return he settled down at Yasnaya -Polyana, and married; and the great patriarchal phase of his life -began, during which every gift and every happiness that man can be -blessed with seemed to have fallen to his lot. It was then that he -wrote _War and Peace_, in which he describes the conflict between one -half of Europe and the other. He takes one of the largest canvases -ever attacked by man; and he writes a prose epic on a period full of -tremendous events. His piercing glance sees through all the fictions of -national prejudice and patriotic bias; and he gives us what we feel to -be the facts as they were, the very truth. No detail is too small for -him, no catastrophe too great. He traces the growth of the spreading -tree to its minute seed, the course of the great river to its tiny -source. He makes a whole vanished generation of public and private men -live before our eyes in such a way that it is difficult to believe that -these people are not a part of our actual experience; and that his -creations are not men and women we have seen with our own eyes, and -whose voices we have heard with our own ears. - -But when we put down this wonderful book, unequalled as a prose -epic, as a panorama of a period and a gallery of a thousand finished -portraits, we are still left with the impression that the author -has not yet found what he is seeking. He is still asking why? and -wherefore? What does it all mean? why all these horrors, why these -sacrifices? Why all this conflict and suffering of nations? What do -these high deeds, this heroism, mean? What is the significance of -these State problems, and the patriotic self-sacrifice of nations? We -are aware that the soul of Tolstoy is alone in an awful solitude, and -that it is shivering on the heights, conscious that all round it is -emptiness, darkness and despair. - -Again, in _War and Peace_ we are conscious that Tolstoy’s proud nature, -the “Lucifer” type in him, is searching for another ideal; and that in -the character of Pierre Bezuhov he is already setting up before us the -ideal of Ivan Durak as the model which we should seek to imitate. And -in Pierre Bezuhov we feel that there is something of Tolstoy himself. -Manners change, but man, faced by the problem of life, is the same -throughout all ages; and, whether consciously or unconsciously, Tolstoy -proves this in writing _Anna Karenina_. Here again, on a large canvas, -we see unrolled before us the contemporary life of the upper classes in -Russia, in St. Petersburg, and in the country, with the same sharpness -of vision, which seizes every outward detail, and reveals every recess -of the heart and mind. Nearly all characters in all fiction seem -bookish beside those of Tolstoy. His men and women are so real and so -true that, even if his psychological analysis of them may sometimes -err and go wrong from its oversubtlety and its desire to explain too -much, the characters themselves seem to correct this automatically, as -though they were independent of their creator. He creates a character -and gives it life. He may theorise on a character, just as he might -theorise on a person in real life; and he may theorise wrong, simply -because sometimes no theorising is necessary, and the very fact of -a theory being set down in words may give a false impression; but, -as soon as the character speaks and acts, it speaks and acts in the -manner which is true to itself, and corrects the false impression of -the theory, just as though it were an independent person over whom the -author had no control. - -Nearly every critic, at least nearly every English critic,[8] in -dealing with _Anna Karenina_, has found fault with the author for the -character of Vronsky. Anna Karenina, they say, could never have fallen -in love with such an ordinary commonplace man. Vronsky, one critic -has said (in a brilliant article), is only a glorified “Steerforth.” -The answer to this is that if you go to St. Petersburg or to London, -or to any other town you like to mention, you will find that the men -with whom the Anna Kareninas of this world fall in love are precisely -the Vronskys, and no one else, for the simple reason that Vronsky is a -man. He is not a hero, and he is not a villain; he is not what people -call “interesting,” but a man, as masculine as Anna is feminine, with -many good qualities and many limitations, but above all things alive. -Nearly every novelist, with the exception of Fielding, ends, in spite -of himself, by placing his hero either above or beneath the standard -of real life. There are many Vronskys to-day in St. Petersburg, and -for the matter of that, _mutatis mutandis_, in London. But no novelist -except Tolstoy has ever had the power to put this simple thing, an -ordinary man, into a book. Put one of Meredith’s heroes next to -Vronsky, and Meredith’s hero will appear like a figure dressed up for -a fancy-dress ball. Put one of Bourget’s heroes next to him, with all -his psychological documents attached to him, and, in spite of all the -analysis in the world, side by side with Tolstoy’s human being he will -seem but a plaster-cast. Yet, all the time, in _Anna Karenina_ we -feel, as in _War and Peace_, that the author is still unsatisfied and -hungry, searching for something he has not yet found; and once again, -this time in still sharper outline and more living colours, he paints -an ideal of simplicity which is taking us towards Ivan Durak in the -character of Levin. Into this character, too, we feel that Tolstoy -has put a great deal of himself; and that Levin, if he is not Tolstoy -himself, is what Tolstoy would like to be. But the loneliness and the -void that are round Tolstoy’s mind are not yet filled; and in that -loneliness and in that void we are sharply conscious of the brooding -presence of despair, and the power of darkness. - -We feel that Tolstoy is afraid of the dark; that to him there is -something wrong in the whole of human life, a radical mistake. He is -conscious that, with all his genius, he has only been able to record -the fact that all that he has found in life is not what he is looking -for, but something irrelevant and unessential; and, at the same time, -that he has not been able to determine the thing in life which is not a -mistake, nor where the true aim, the essential thing, is to be found, -nor in what it consists. It is at this moment that the crisis occurred -in Tolstoy’s life which divides it outwardly into two sections, -although it constitutes no break in his inward evolution. The fear of -the dark, of the abyss yawning in front of him, was so strong that he -felt he must rid himself of it at all costs. - - “I felt terror” (he writes) “of what was awaiting me, though I knew - that this terror was more terrible than my position itself; I could - not wait patiently for the end; my horror of the darkness was too - great, and I felt I must rid myself of it as soon as possible by noose - or bullet.” - -This terror was not a physical fear of death, but an abstract fear, -arising from the consciousness that the cold mists of decay were rising -round him. By the realisation of the nothingness of everything, of -what Leopardi calls “l’infinita vanità del tutto,” he was brought to -the verge of suicide. And then came the change which he describes thus -in his _Confession_: “I grew to hate myself; and now all has become -clear to me.” This was the preliminary step of the development which -led him to believe that he had at last found the final and everlasting -truth. “A man has only got not to desire lands or money, in order to -enter into the kingdom of God.” Property, he came to believe, was -the source of all evil. “It is not a law of nature, the will of God, -or a historical necessity; rather a superstition, neither strong -nor terrible, but weak and contemptible.” To free oneself from this -superstition he thought was as easy as to stamp on a spider. He -desired literally to carry out the teaching of the Gospels, to give up -all he had and to become a beggar. - -This ideal he was not able to carry out in practice. His family, -his wife, opposed him: and he was not strong enough to face the -uncompromising and terrible sayings which speak of a man’s foes being -those of his own household, of father being divided against son, and -household against household, of the dead being left to bury their dead. -He put before him the ideal of the Christian saints, and of the early -Russian martyrs who literally acted upon the saying of Christ: “Whoso -leaveth not house and lands and children for My sake, is not worthy -of Me.” Tolstoy, instead of crushing the spider of property, shut his -eyes to it. He refused to handle money, or to have anything to do with -it; but this does not alter the fact that it was handled for him, so -that he retained its advantages, and this without any of the harassment -which arises from the handling of property. His affairs were, and still -are, managed for him; and he continued to live as he had done before. -No sane person would think of blaming Tolstoy for this. He was not by -nature a St. Francis; he was not by nature a Russian martyr, but the -reverse. What one does resent is not that his practice is inconsistent -with his teaching, but that his teaching is inconsistent with the -ideal which it professes to embody. He takes the Christian teaching, -and tells the world that it is the only hope of salvation, the only key -to the riddle of life. At the same time he neglects the first truth -on which that teaching is based, namely, that man must be born again; -he must humble himself and become as a little child. It is just this -final and absolute surrender that Tolstoy has been unable to make. -Instead of loving God through himself, and loving himself for the God -in him, he hates himself, and refuses to recognise the gifts that God -has given him. It is for this reason that he talks of all his great -work, with the exception of a few stories written for children, as -being worthless. It is for this reason that he ceased writing novels, -and attempted to plough the fields. And the cause of all this is simply -spiritual pride, because he was unwilling “to do his duty in that state -of life to which it had pleased God to call him.” Providence had made -him a novelist and a writer, and not a tiller of the fields. Providence -had made him not only a novelist, but perhaps the greatest novelist -that has ever lived; yet he deliberately turns upon this gift, and -spurns it, and spits upon it, and says that it is worth nothing. - -The question is, has a human being the right to do this, especially if, -for any reasons whatever, he is not able to make the full and complete -renunciation, and to cut himself off from the world altogether? The -answer is that if this be the foundation of Tolstoy’s teaching, people -have a right to complain of there being something wrong in it. If he -had left the world and become a pilgrim, like one of the early Russian -saints, not a word could have been said; or if he had remained in the -world, preaching the ideals of Christianity and carrying them out -as far as he could, not a word could have been said. But, while he -has not followed the first course, he has preached that the second -course is wrong. He has striven after the ideal of Ivan Durak, but has -been unable to find it, simply because he has been unable to humble -himself; he has re-written the Gospels to suit his own temperament. -The cry of his youth, “I have no modesty,” remains true of him after -his conversion. It is rather that he has no humility; and, instead of -acknowledging that every man is appointed to a definite task, and that -there is no such thing as a superfluous man or a superfluous task, he -has preached that all tasks are superfluous except what he himself -considers to be necessary; instead of preaching the love of the divine -“image of the King,” with which man is stamped like a coin, he has told -us to love the maker of the coin by hatred of His handiwork, quite -regardless of the image with which it is stamped. - -This all arises from the dual personality in the man, the conflict -between the titanic “Lucifer” and the other element in him, for ever -searching for the ideal of Ivan Durak. The Titan is consumed with -desire to become Ivan Durak; he preaches to the whole world that they -should do so, but he cannot do it himself. Other proud and titanic -natures have done it; but Tolstoy cannot do what Dante did. Dante was -proud and a Titan, but Dante divested himself of his pride, and seeing -the truth, said: “In la sua volontade è nostra pace.” Nor can Tolstoy -attain to Goethe’s great cry of recognition of the “himmlische Mächte,” -“Wer nie sein Brod mit Thränen ass.” He remains isolated in his high -and terrible solitude: - - “In the cold starlight where thou canst not climb.” - -Tourgeniev said of Tolstoy, “He never loved any one but himself.” -Merejkowski, in his _Tolstoy as Man and Artist_, a creative work of -criticism, is nearer the truth when he says, He has never loved any -man, “_not even himself_!” But Merejkowski considers that the full -circle of Tolstoy’s spiritual life is not closed. He does not believe -he has found the truth which he has sought for all his life, nor that -he is, as yet, at rest. - - “I cannot refuse to believe him” (he writes) “when he speaks of - himself as a pitiable fledgling fallen from the nest. Yes, however - terrible, it is true. This Titan, with all his vigour, is lying on - his back and wailing in the high grass, as you and I and all the rest - of us. No, he has found nothing; no faith, no God. And his whole - justification is solely in his hopeless prayer, this piercing and - plaintive cry of boundless solitude and dread.... Will he at last - understand that there is no higher or lower in the matter; that the - two seemingly contradictory and equally true paths, leading to one - and the same goal, are not two paths, but one path which merely seems - to be two; and that it is not by going against what is earthly or - fleeing from it, but only through what is earthly, that we can reach - the Divine; that it is not by divesting ourselves of the flesh, but - through the flesh, that we can reach that which is beyond the flesh? - Shall we fear the flesh? we, the children of Him who said, ‘My blood - is drink indeed, and My flesh is meat indeed’; we, whose God is that - God whose Word was made flesh?”[9] - -Yet, whatever the mistakes of Tolstoy’s teaching may be, they do not -detract from the moral authority of the man. All his life he has -searched for the truth, and all his life he has said exactly what -he thought; and though he has fearlessly attacked all constituted -authorities, nobody has dared to touch him. He is too great. This is -the first time independent thought has prevailed in Russia; and this -victory is the greatest service he has rendered to Russia _as a man_. - -Neither Tolstoy nor Dostoievsky could endure Tourgeniev; their dislike -of him is interesting, and helps us to understand the nature of their -work and of their artistic ideals, and the nature of the distance that -separates the work of Tourgeniev from that of Tolstoy. “I despise the -man,” Tolstoy wrote of Tourgeniev to Fet. Dostoievsky, in his novel -_The Possessed_,[10] draws a scathing portrait of Tourgeniev, in which -every defect of the man is noted but grossly exaggerated. This portrait -is not uninstructive. - -“I read his works in my childhood,” Dostoievsky writes, “I even -revelled in them. They were the delight of my boyhood and my youth. -Then I gradually grew to feel colder towards his writing.” He goes -on to say that Tourgeniev is one of those authors who powerfully -affect one generation, and are then put on the shelf, like the scene -of a theatre. The reason of this dislike, of the inability to admire -Tourgeniev’s work, which was shared by Tolstoy and Dostoievsky, is -perhaps that both these men, each in his own way, reached the absolute -truth of the life which was round them. Tolstoy painted the outer and -the inner life of those with whom he came in contact, in a manner such -as has never been seen before or since; and Dostoievsky painted the -inner life (however fantastic he made the outer machinery of his work) -with an insight that has never been attained before or since. Now -Tourgeniev painted people of the same epoch, the same generation; he -dealt with the same material; he dealt with it as an artist and as a -poet, as a great artist, and as a great poet. But his vision was weak -and narrow compared with that of Tolstoy, and his understanding was -cold and shallow compared with that of Dostoievsky. His characters, -beside those of Tolstoy, seem caricatures, and beside those of -Dostoievsky they are conventional. - -In Europe no foreign writer has ever received more abundant praise from -the most eclectic judges than has Tourgeniev. Flaubert said of him: -“Quel gigantesque bonhomme que ce Scythe!” George Sand said: “Maître, -il nous faut tous aller à votre école.” Taine speaks of Tourgeniev’s -work as being the finest artistic production since Sophocles. -Twenty-five years have now passed since Tourgeniev’s death; and, as M. -Haumant points out in his book, the period of reaction and of doubt, -with regard to his work, has now set in even in Europe. People are -beginning to ask themselves whether Tourgeniev’s pictures are true, -whether the Russians that he describes ever existed, and whether the -praise which was bestowed upon him by his astonished contemporaries all -over Europe was not a gross exaggeration. - -One reason of the abundant and perhaps excessive praise which was -showered on Tourgeniev by European critics is that it was chiefly -through Tourgeniev’s work that Europe discovered Russian literature, -and became aware that novels were being written in which dramatic -issues, as poignant and terrible as those of Greek tragedy, arose -simply out of the clash of certain characters in everyday life. The -simplicity of Russian literature, the naturalness of the characters -in Russian fiction, came like a revelation to Europe; and, as this -revelation came about partly through the work of Tourgeniev, it is -not difficult to understand that he received the praise not only due -to him as an artist, but the praise for all the qualities which are -inseparable from the work of any Russian. - -Heine says somewhere that the man who first came to Germany was -astonished at the abundance of ideas there. “This man,” he says, “was -like the traveller who found a nugget of gold directly he arrived in -El Dorado; but his enthusiasm died down when he discovered that in El -Dorado there was nothing but nuggets of gold.” As it was with ideas -in Germany, according to Heine, so was it with the naturalness of -Tourgeniev. Compared with the work of Tolstoy and that of all other -Russian writers, Tourgeniev’s naturalness is less astonishing, because -he possesses the same qualities that they possess, only in a less -degree. - -When all is said, Tourgeniev was a great poet. What time has not taken -away from him, and what time can never take away, is the beauty of -his language and the poetry in his work. Every Russian schoolboy has -read the works of Tourgeniev before he has left school; and every -Russian schoolboy will probably continue to do so, because Tourgeniev’s -prose remains a classic model of simple, beautiful, and harmonious -language, and as such it can hardly be excelled. Tourgeniev never -wrote anything better than the book which brought him fame, the -_Sportsman’s Sketches_. In this book nearly the whole of his talent -finds expression. One does not know which to admire more--the delicacy -of the art in choosing and recording his impressions, or the limpid -and musical utterance with which they are recorded. To the reader who -only knows his work through a translation, three-quarters of the beauty -are lost; yet so great is the truth, and so moving is the poetry of -these sketches, that even in translation they will strike a reader as -unrivalled. - -There is, perhaps, nothing so difficult in the world to translate as -stories dealing with Russian peasants. The simplicity and directness -of their speech are the despair of the translator; and to translate -them properly would require literary talent at once as great and as -delicate as the author’s. Mrs. Garnett’s version of Tourgeniev’s work -is admirable; yet in reading the translation of the _Sportsman’s -Sketches_, and comparing it with the original, one feels that the -task is an almost impossible one. Some writers, Rudyard Kipling for -instance, succeed in conveying to us the impression which is made by -the conversation of men in exotic countries. When Rudyard Kipling gives -us the speech of an Indian, he translates it into simple and biblical -English. There is no doubt this is the right way to deal with the -matter; it is the method which was adopted with perfect success by the -great writers of the eighteenth century, the method of Fielding and -Smollett in dealing with the conversation of simple men. One cannot -help thinking that it is a mistake, in translating the speech of -people like Russian peasants, or Indians, or Greeks, however familiar -the speech may be, to try to render it by the equivalent colloquial -or slang English. For instance, Mrs. Garnett, in translating one of -Tourgeniev’s masterpieces, _The Singers_, turns the Russian words -“nie vryosh” (Art thou not lying?) by “Isn’t it your humbug?” In the -same story she translates the Russian word “molchat” by the slang -expression “shut up.” Now “shut up” might, in certain circumstances, -be the colloquial equivalent of “molchat”; but the expression conveyed -is utterly false, and it would be better to translate it simply “be -silent”; because to translate the talk of the Russian peasant into -English colloquialisms conveys precisely the same impression, to any -one familiar with the original, which he would receive were he to come -across the talk of a Scotch gillie translated into English cockney -slang. - -This may seem a small point, but in reality it is the chief problem -of all translation, and especially of that translation which deals -with the talk and the ways of simple men. It is therefore of cardinal -importance, when the material in question happens to be the talk of -Russian peasants; and I have seen no translation in which this mistake -is not made. How great the beauty of the original must be is proved by -the fact that even in a translation of this kind one can still discern -it, and that one receives at least a shadow of the impression which -the author intended to convey. If the _Sportsman’s Sketches_ be the -masterpiece of Tourgeniev, he rose to the same heights once more at the -close of his career, when he wrote the incomparable _Poems in Prose_. -Here once more he touched the particular vibrating string which was -his special secret, and which thrills and echoes in the heart with so -lingering a sweetness. - -So much for Tourgeniev as a poet. But Tourgeniev was a novelist, he -was famous as a novelist, and must be considered as such. His three -principal novels, _A House of Gentlefolk_, _Fathers and Sons_, and -_Virgin Soil_, laid the foundation of his European fame. Their merits -consist in the ideal character of the women described, the absence of -tricks of mechanism and melodrama, the naturalness of the sequence -of the events, the harmony and proportion of the whole, and the -vividness of the characters. No one can deny that the characters of -Tourgeniev live; they are intensely vivid. Whether they are true to -life is another question. The difference between the work of Tolstoy -and Tourgeniev is this: that Tourgeniev’s characters are as living -as any characters ever are in books, but they belong, comparatively -speaking, to bookland, and are thus conventional; whereas Tolstoy’s -characters belong to life. The fault which Russian critics find with -Tourgeniev’s characters is that they are exaggerated, that there is -an element of caricature in them; and that they are permeated by the -faults of the author’s own character, namely, his weakness, and, above -all, his self-consciousness. M. Haumant points out that the want of -backbone in all Tourgeniev’s characters does not prove that types of -this kind must necessarily be untrue or misleading pictures of the -Russian character, since Tourgeniev was not only a Russian, but an -exceptionally gifted and remarkable Russian. Tourgeniev himself divides -all humanity into two types, the Don Quixotes and the Hamlets. With but -one notable exception, he almost exclusively portrayed the Hamlets. -Feeble, nerveless people, full of ideas, enthusiastic in speech, -capable by their words of exciting enthusiasm and even of creating -belief in themselves, but incapable of action and devoid of will; they -lack both the sublime simplicity and the weakness of Ivan Durak, which -is not weakness but strength, because it proceeds from a profound -goodness. - -To this there is one exception. In _Fathers and Sons_, Tourgeniev -drew a portrait of the “Lucifer” type, of an unbending and inflexible -will, namely, Bazarov. There is no character in the whole of his work -which is more alive; and nothing that he wrote ever aroused so much -controversy and censure as this figure. Tourgeniev invented the type -of the intellectual Nihilist in fiction. If he was not the first to -invent the word, he was the first to apply it and to give it currency. -The type remains, and will remain, of the man who believes in nothing, -bows to nothing, bends to nothing, and who retains his invincible pride -until death strikes him down. Here again, compared with the Nihilists -whom Dostoievsky has drawn in his _Possessed_, we feel that, so far -as the inner truth of this type is concerned, Tourgeniev’s Bazarov is -a book-character, extraordinarily vivid and living though he be; and -that Dostoievsky’s Nihilists, however outwardly fantastic they may -seem, are inwardly not only truer, but the very quintessence of truth. -Tourgeniev never actually saw the real thing as Tolstoy might have seen -it and described it; nor could he divine by intuition the real thing -as Dostoievsky divined it, whether he saw it or not. But Tourgeniev -evolved a type out of his artistic imagination, and made a living -figure which, to us at any rate, is extraordinarily striking. This -character has proved, however, highly irritating to those who knew the -prototype from which it was admittedly drawn, and considered him not -only a far more interesting character than Tourgeniev’s conception, but -quite different from it. But whatever fault may be found with Bazarov, -none can be found with the description of his death. Here Tourgeniev -reaches his high-water mark as a novelist, and strikes a note of manly -pathos which, by its reserve, suggests an infinity of things all the -more striking for being left unsaid. The death of Bazarov is one of the -great pages of the world’s fiction. - -In _Virgin Soil_, Tourgeniev attempts to give a sketch of underground -life in Russia--the revolutionary movement, helpless in face of the -ignorance of the masses and the unpreparedness of the nation at large -for any such movement. Here, in the opinion of all Russian judges, -and of most latter-day critics who have knowledge of the subject, he -failed. In describing the official class, although he does this with -great skill and cleverness, he makes a gallery of caricatures; and the -revolutionaries whom he sets before us as types, however good they may -be as fiction, are not the real thing.[11] Nevertheless, in spite of -Tourgeniev’s limitations, these three books, _A House of Gentlefolk_, -_Fathers and Sons_, and _Virgin Soil_, must always have a permanent -value as reflecting the atmosphere of the generation which he paints, -even though his pictures be marred by caricatures, and feeble when -compared with those of his rivals. - -Of his other novels, the most important are _On the Eve_, _Smoke_, -_Spring Waters_, and _Rudin_ (the most striking portrait in his gallery -of Hamlets). In _Spring Waters_, Tourgeniev’s poetry is allowed free -play; the result is therefore an entrancing masterpiece. With regard to -_On the Eve_, Tolstoy writes thus:[12] - - “These are excellent negative characters, the artist and the father. - The rest are not types; even their conception, their position, is not - typical, or they are quite insignificant. That, however, is always - Tourgeniev’s mistake. The girl is hopelessly bad. ‘Ah, how I love - thee!... Her eyelashes were long.’ In general it always surprises - me that Tourgeniev, with his mental powers and poetic sensibility, - should, even in his methods, not be able to refrain from banality. - There is no humanity or sympathy for the characters, but the author - exhibits monsters whom he scolds and does not pity.” - -Again, in writing of _Smoke_, Tolstoy says:[13] - - “About _Smoke_, I think that the strength of poetry lies in love; and - the direction of that strength depends on character. Without strength - of love there is no poetry; but strength falsely directed--the result - of the poet’s having an unpleasant, weak character--creates dislike. - In _Smoke_ there is hardly any love of anything, and very little pity; - there is only love of light and playful adultery; and therefore the - poetry of that novel is repulsive.” - -These criticisms, especially the latter, may be said to sum up the case -of the “Advocatus Diaboli” with regard to Tourgeniev. I have quoted -them because they represent what many educated Russians feel at the -present day about a great part of Tourgeniev’s work, however keenly -they appreciate his poetical sensibility and his gift of style. The -view deserves to be pointed out, because all that can be said in praise -of Tourgeniev has not only been expressed with admirable nicety and -discrimination by widely different critics of various nationalities, -but their praise is constantly being quoted; whereas the other side -of the question is seldom mentioned. Yet in the case of _On the Eve_, -Tolstoy’s criticism is manifestly unfair. Tolstoy was unable by his -nature to do full justice to Tourgeniev. Perhaps the most impartial -and acute criticism of Tourgeniev’s work that exists is to be found -in M. de Vogüé’s _Roman Russe_. M. de Vogüé is not indeed blind to -Tourgeniev’s defects; he recognises the superiority both of Tolstoy -and Dostoievsky, but he nevertheless gives Tourgeniev his full meed of -appreciation. - -The lapse of years has only emphasised the elements of banality and -conventionality which are to be found in Tourgeniev’s work. He is a -masterly landscape painter; but even here he is not without convention. -His landscapes are always orthodox Russian landscapes, and are seldom -varied. He seems never to get face to face with nature, after the -manner of Wordsworth; he never gives us any elemental pictures of -nature, such as Gorky succeeds in doing in a phrase; but he rings the -changes on delicate arrangements of wood, cloud, mist and water, vague -backgrounds and diaphanous figures, after the manner of Corot. This -does not detract from the beauty of his pictures, and our admiration -for them is not lessened; but all temptation to exaggerate its merits -vanishes when we turn from his work to that of stronger masters. - -To sum up, it may be said that the picture of Russia obtained from -the whole of Tourgeniev’s work has been incomplete, but it is not -inaccurate; and such as it is, with all its faults, it is invaluable. -In 1847, Bielinski, in writing to Tourgeniev, said: “It seems to me -that you have little or no creative genius. Your vocation is to depict -reality.” This criticism remained true to the end of Tourgeniev’s -career, but it omits his greatest gift, his poetry, the magical echoes, -the “unheard melodies,” which he sets vibrating in our hearts by the -music of his utterance. The last of Tourgeniev’s poems in prose is -called “The Russian Language.” It runs as follows: - - “In days of doubt, in the days of burdensome musing over the fate - of my country, thou alone art my support and my mainstay, oh great, - mighty, truthful, and unfettered Russian language! Were it not for - thee, how should I not fall into despair at the sight of all that is - being done at home? But how can I believe that such a tongue was given - to any but a great people?” - -No greater praise can be given to Tourgeniev than to say that he was -worthy of his medium, and that no Russian prose writer ever handled the -great instrument of his inheritance with a more delicate touch or a -surer execution. - -When Tourgeniev was dying, he wrote to Tolstoy and implored him to -return to literature. “That gift,” he wrote, “came whence all comes to -us. Return to your literary work, great writer of our Russian land!” - -All through Tourgeniev’s life, in spite of his frequent quarrels with -Tolstoy, he never ceased to admire the works of his rival. Tourgeniev -had the gift of admiration. Tolstoy is absolutely devoid of it. -The “Lucifer” spirit in him refuses to bow down before Shakespeare -or Beethoven, simply because it is incapable of bending at all. To -justify this want, this incapacity to admire the great masterpieces -of the world, Tolstoy wrote a book called _What is Art?_ in which he -condemned theories he had himself enunciated years before. In this, -and in a book on Shakespeare, he treats all art, the very greatest, -as if it were in the same category with that of æsthetes who confine -themselves to prattling of “Art for Art’s sake.” Beethoven he brushes -aside because, he says, such music can only appeal to specialists. -“What proportion of the world’s population,” he asks, “have ever heard -the Ninth Symphony or seen ‘King Lear’? And how many of them enjoyed -the one or the other?” If these things be the highest art, and yet the -bulk of men live without them, and do not need them, then the highest -art lacks all claim to such respect as Tolstoy is ready to accord to -art. In commenting on this, Mr. Aylmer Maude writes: “The case of the -specialists, when Tolstoy calls in question the merits of ‘King Lear’ -or of the Ninth Symphony, is an easy one.” - -But the fallacy does not lie here. The fallacy lies in thinking -the matter is a case for specialists at all. It is not a case for -specialists. Beethoven’s later quartettes may be a case for the -specialist, just as the obscurer passages in Shakespeare may be a -case for the specialist. This does not alter the fact that the whole -of the German nation, and multitudes of people outside Germany, meet -together to hear Beethoven’s symphonies played, and enjoy them. It does -not alter the fact that Shakespeare’s plays are translated into every -language and enjoyed, and, when they are performed, are enjoyed by -the simplest and the most uneducated people. The highest receipts are -obtained at the Théâtre Français on holidays and feast days, when the -plays of Molière are given. Tolstoy leaves out the fact that very great -art, such as that of Homer, Shakespeare, Dante, Milton, Beethoven, -Mozart, appeals at the same time, and possibly for different reasons, -to the highly trained specialist and to the most uncultivated -ignoramus. This, Dr. Johnson points out, is the great merit of Bunyan’s -_Pilgrim’s Progress_: the most cultivated man cannot find anything -to praise more highly, and a child knows nothing more amusing. This -is also true of _Paradise Lost_, an appreciation of which is held in -England to be the highest criterion of scholarship. And _Paradise -Lost_, translated into simple prose, is sold in cheap editions, with -coloured pictures, all over Russia,[14] and greedily read by the -peasants, who have no idea that it is a poem, but enjoy it as a tale -of fantastic adventure and miraculous events. It appeals at the same -time to their religious feeling and to their love of fairy tales, and -impresses them by a certain elevation in the language (just as the -chants in church impress them) which they unconsciously feel does them -good. - -It is this inability to admire which is the whole defect of Tolstoy, -and it arises from his indomitable pride, which is the strength -of his character, and causes him to tower like a giant over all -his contemporaries. Therefore, in reviewing his whole work and his -whole life, and in reviewing it in connection with that of his -contemporaries, one comes to this conclusion. If Tolstoy, being as -great as he is, has this great limitation, we can only repeat the -platitude that no genius, however great, is without limitations; no -ruby without a flaw. Were it otherwise--Had there been combined with -Tolstoy’s power and directness of vision and creative genius, the large -love and the childlike simplicity of Dostoievsky--we should have had, -united in one man, the complete expression of the Russian race; that is -to say, we should have had a complete man--which is impossible. - -Tourgeniev, on the other hand, is full to the brim of the power of -admiration and appreciation which Tolstoy lacks; but then he also -lacks Tolstoy’s strength and power. Dostoievsky has a power different -from Tolstoy’s, but equal in scale, and titanic. He has a power of -admiration, an appreciation wider and deeper than Tourgeniev’s, and -the humility of a man who has descended into hell, who has been face -to face with the sufferings and the agonies of humanity and the vilest -aspects of human nature; who, far from losing his faith in the divine, -has detected it in every human being, however vile, and in every -circumstance, however hideous; and who in dust and ashes has felt -himself face to face with God. Yet, in spite of all this, Dostoievsky -is far from being the complete expression of the Russian genius, or -a complete man. His limitations are as great as Tolstoy’s; and no one -was ever more conscious of them than himself. They do not concern us -here. What does concern us is that in modern Russian literature, in the -literature of this century, leaving the poets out of the question, the -two great figures, the two great columns which support the temple of -Russian literature, are Tolstoy and Dostoievsky. Tourgeniev’s place is -inside that temple; there he has a shrine and an altar which are his -own, which no one can dispute with him, and which are bathed in serene -radiance and visited by shy visions and voices of haunting loveliness. -But neither as a writer nor as a man can he be called the great -representative of even half the Russian genius; for he complements the -genius of neither Tolstoy nor Dostoievsky. He possesses in a minor -degree qualities which they both possessed; and the qualities which -are his and his only, exquisite as they are, are not of the kind which -belong to the greatest representatives of a nation or of a race. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[7] _Life of Tolstoy_, p. 38. - -[8] Matthew Arnold is a notable exception. - -[9] _Tolstoy as Man and Artist_, pp. 93, 95. This passage is translated -from the Russian edition. - -[10] It should be said that this portrait is so unfair, and yet -contains elements of truth so acutely observed, that for some people it -spoils the whole book. - -[11] With the exception of Marianna, one of his most beautiful and -noble characters. - -[12] _Life_, p. 189. - -[13] _Life_, p. 312. - -[14] The popular edition of _Paradise Lost_ in Russian prose, with -rough coloured pictures, is published by the Tipografia, T. D. Sitin, -Piatnitzkaia Oolitza, Moscow. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -THE PLACE OF TOURGENIEV - - -In the preceding I have tried very briefly to point out the state of -the barometer of public opinion (the barometer of the average educated -man and not of any exclusive clique) with regard to Tourgeniev’s -reputation in Russia at the present day. - -That and no more. I have not devoted a special chapter in this book -to Tourgeniev for the reasons I have already stated: namely, that his -work is better known in England than most other Russian classics, and -that admirable appreciations of his work exist already, written by -famous critics, such as Mr. Henry James and M. Melchior de Vogüé. There -is in England, among people who care for literature and who study the -literature of Europe, a perfectly definite estimate of Tourgeniev. It -is for this reason that I confined myself to trying to elucidate what -the average Russian thinks to-day about Tourgeniev compared with other -Russian writers, and to noticing any changes which have come about with -regard to the estimate of his work in Russia and in Europe during the -last twenty years. I thought this was sufficient. - -But I now realise from several able criticisms on my study of Tolstoy -and Tourgeniev when it appeared in the _Quarterly Review_, that I had -laid myself open to be misunderstood. It was taken for granted in -several quarters not only that I underrated Tourgeniev as a writer, -but that I wished to convey the impression that his reputation was a -bubble that had burst. Nothing was farther from my intention than this. -And here lies the great danger of trying to talk of any foreign writer -from the point of view of that writer’s country and not from that of -your own country. You are instantly misunderstood. For instance, if you -say Alfred de Musset is not so much admired now in France as he used -to be in the sixties, the English reader, who may only recently have -discovered Alfred de Musset, and, indeed, may be approaching French -poetry as a whole for the first time, at once retorts: “There is a man -who is depreciating one of France’s greatest writers!” - -Now what I wish to convey with regard to Tourgeniev is simply this: - -Firstly, that although he is and always will remain a Russian classic, -he is not, rightly or wrongly, so enthusiastically admired as he used -to be: new writers have risen since his time (not necessarily better -ones, but men who have opened windows on undreamed-of vistas); and -not only this, but one of his own contemporaries, Dostoievsky, has -been brought into a larger and clearer light of fame than he enjoyed -in his lifetime, owing to the dissipation of the mists of political -prejudices and temporary and local polemics, differences, quarrels and -controversies. - -But the English reader has, as a general rule, never got farther than -Tourgeniev. He is generally quite unacquainted with the other Russian -classics; and so when it is said that there are others greater than -he--Dostoievsky and Gogol, for instance,--the English reader thinks an -attempt is being made to break a cherished and holy image. And if he -admires Tourgeniev,--which, if he likes Russian literature at all he is -almost sure to do,--it makes him angry. - -Secondly, I wish to say that owing to the generally prevailing limited -view of the educated intellectual Englishman as to the field of -Russian literature as a whole, I do think he is inclined to overrate -the genius and position of Tourgeniev in Russian literature, great as -they are. There is, I think, an exaggerated cult for Tourgeniev among -intellectual Englishmen.[15] The case of Tennyson seems to me to afford -a very close parallel to that of Tourgeniev. - -Mr. Gosse pointed out not long ago in a subtle and masterly article -that Tennyson, although we were now celebrating his centenary, had not -reached that moment when a poet is rapturously rediscovered by a far -younger generation than his own, but that he had reached that point -when the present generation felt no particular excitement about his -work. This seems to me the exact truth about Tourgeniev’s reputation -in Russia at the present day. Everybody has read him, and everybody -will always read him because he is a classic and because he has written -immortal things, but now, in the year 1909, there is no particular -excitement about _Fathers and Sons_ in Russia: just as now there is no -particular excitement about the “Idylls of the King” or “In Memoriam” -in England to-day. Tourgeniev has not yet been rediscovered. - -Of course, there are some critics who in “the fearless old fashion” say -boldly that Tennyson’s reputation is dead; that he exists no longer, -and that we need not trouble to mention him. I read some such sweeping -pronouncement not long ago by an able journalist. There are doubtless -Russian critics who say the same about Tourgeniev. As to whether they -are right or wrong, I will not bother myself or my readers, but I do -wish to make it as clear as daylight that I myself hold no such opinion -either with regard to Tourgeniev or to Tennyson. - -I believe Tennyson to have written a great quantity of immortal and -magnificently beautiful verse. I believe that Tennyson possesses an -enduring throne in the Temple of English poets. I believe Tourgeniev to -have written a great quantity of immortal and inexpressibly beautiful -prose, and I believe that he will hold an enduring seat in the Temple -of Russian literature. I think this is clear. But supposing a Russian -critic were to write on the English literature and the English taste -of the present day, and supposing he were to say, “Of course, as we -Russians all feel, there is only one English poet in the English -literature of the last hundred years, and that is Tennyson. Tennyson is -the great and only representative of English art; the only writer who -has expressed the English soul.” We should then suspect he had never -studied the works of Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron, Keats, Coleridge, -Browning and Swinburne. Well, this, it seems to me, is exactly how -Tourgeniev is treated in England. All I wished to point out was that -the point of view of a Russian was necessarily different, owing to -his larger field of vision and to the greater extent and depth of his -knowledge, and to his closer communion with the work of his national -authors. - -But, as I have said, it was taken for granted by some people that I -wished to show that Tourgeniev was not a classic. I will therefore, at -the risk of wearying my readers, repeat--with as much variation as I -can muster--what I consider to be some of Tourgeniev’s special claims -to enduring fame. - -I have said he was a great poet; but the words seem bare and dead when -one considers the peculiar nature of the shy and entrancing poetry -that is in Tourgeniev’s work. He has the magic that water gives to the -reflected images of trees, hills and woods; he touches the ugly facts -of life, softens and transfigures them so that they lose none of their -reality, but gain a majesty and a mystery that comes from beyond the -world, just as the moonlight softens and transfigures the wrinkled -palaces and decaying porticoes of Venice, hiding what is sordid, -heightening the beauty of line, and giving a quality of magic to every -stately building, to each delicate pillar and chiselled arch. - -Then there is in his work a note of wistful tenderness that steals into -the heart and fills it with an incommunicable pleasureable sadness, as -do the songs you hear in Russia on dark summer nights in the villages, -or, better still, on the broad waters of some huge silent river,--songs -aching with an ecstasy of homesickness, songs which are something -half-way between the whining sadness of Oriental music and the -rippling plaintiveness of Irish and Scotch folk-song; songs that are -imperatively melodious, but strange to us in their rhythm, constantly -changing yet subordinated to definite law, varying indeed with an -invariable law; songs whose notes, without being definitely sharp or -flat, seem a little bit higher, or a shade lower than you expect, and -in which certain notes come over and over again with an insistent -appeal, a heartbreaking iteration, and an almost intolerable pathos; -songs which end abruptly and suddenly, so that you feel that they are -meant to begin again at once and to go on for ever. - -This is how Tourgeniev’s poetical quality--as manifested in his -_Sportsman’s Sketches_, his _Poems in Prose_, and in many other of -his works--strikes me. But I doubt if any one unacquainted with the -Russian language would derive such impressions, for it is above all -things Tourgeniev’s language--the words he uses and the way in which -he uses them--that is magical. Every sentence is a phrase of perfect -melody; limpid, simple and sensuous. And all this must necessarily half -disappear in a translation, however good. - -But then Tourgeniev is not only a poet. He is a great novelist and -something more than a great novelist. He has recorded for all time the -atmosphere of a certain epoch. He has done for Russia what Trollope -did for England: he has exactly conveyed the atmosphere and the tone -of the fifties. The characters of Trollope and Tourgeniev are excelled -by those of other writers--and I do not mean to put Tourgeniev on -the level of Trollope, because Tourgeniev is an infinitely greater -writer and an artist of an altogether higher order--; but for giving -the general picture and atmosphere of England during the fifties, I do -not believe any one has excelled Trollope; and for giving the general -atmosphere of the fifties in Russia, of a certain class, I do not -believe any one--with the possible exception of Aksakov, the Russian -Trollope,--has excelled what Tourgeniev did in his best known books, -_Fathers and Sons_, _Virgin Soil_, and _A House of Gentlefolk_. - -Then, of course, Tourgeniev has gifts of shrewd characterisation, the -power of creating delightful women, gifts of pathos and psychology, and -artistic gifts of observation and selection, the whole being always -illumined and refined by the essential poetry of his temperament, and -the magical manner in which, like an inspired conductor leading an -orchestra of delicate wood and wind instruments, he handles the Russian -language. But when it comes to judging who has interpreted more truly -Russian life as a whole, and who has gazed deepest into the Russian -soul and expressed most truly and fully what is there, then I can but -repeat that I think he falls far short of Tolstoy, in the one case, -and of Dostoievsky, in the other. Judged as a whole, I think he is far -excelled, for different reasons, by Tolstoy, Dostoievsky, and by Gogol, -who surpasses him immeasurably alike in imagination, humour and truth. -I have endeavoured to explain why in various portions of this book. I -will not add anything further here, and I only hope that I have made it -sufficiently clear that although I admire other Russian writers more -than Tourgeniev, I am no image-breaker; and that although I worship -more fervently at other altars, I never for a moment intended either to -deny or to depreciate the authentic ray of divine light that burns in -Tourgeniev’s work.[16] - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[15] See, for instance, Mr. Frank Harris in his _Shakespeare the Man: -His Tragedy_. See footnote, p. 124. - -[16] The most striking instance I have come across lately of the cult -for Tourgeniev in England is in Mr. Frank Harris’ remarkable book on -Shakespeare. He illustrates his thesis that Shakespeare could not -create a manly character, by saying that Shakespeare could not have -drawn a _Bazarov_ or a _Marianna_. Leaving the thesis out of the -discussion, it is to me almost incredible that any one could think -Tourgeniev’s characters manly, compared with those of Shakespeare. -Tourgeniev played a hundred variations on the theme of the minor -Hamlet. He painted a whole gallery of little Hamlets. _Bazarov_ attains -his strength at the expense of intellectual nihilism, but he is a -neuropath compared with Mercutio. And _Bazarov_ is the only one of -Tourgeniev’s characters (and Tourgeniev’s acutest critics agree with -this,--see Brückner and Vogüé) that has strength. Tourgeniev could no -more have created a Falstaff than he could have flown. Where are these -manly characters of Tourgeniev? Who are they? Indeed a Russian critic -lately pointed out, _à propos_ of Tchekov, that the whole of Russian -politics, literature, and art, during the latter half of the nineteenth -century, suffered from the misfortune of there being so many such -Hamlets and so few Fortinbrases. I am convinced that had Mr. Harris -been a Russian, or had Tourgeniev been an Englishman, Mr. Harris would -not have held these views. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -DOSTOIEVSKY - - “In nobler books we are moved with something like the emotions of - life; and this emotion is very variously provoked. We are moved when - Levine labours in the field, when André sinks beyond emotion, when - Richard Feverel and Lucy Desborough meet beside the river, when - Antony, not cowardly, puts off his helmet, when Kent has infinite pity - on the dying Lear, when in Dostoiefsky’s _Despised and Rejected_, the - uncomplaining hero drains his cup of suffering and virtue. These are - notes which please the great heart of man.” - - R. L. STEVENSON, _Across the Plains_ - - “Raskolnikoff (_Crime and Punishment_) is easily the greatest book I - have read in ten years.... I divined ... the existence of a certain - impotence in many minds of to-day which prevents them from living in - a book or a character and keeps them afar off, spectators of a puppet - show. To such I suppose the book may seem empty in the centre; to - the others it is a room, a house of life, into which they themselves - enter, and are tortured and purified.... - - “Another has been translated--_Humiliés et offensés_. It is even more - incoherent than _Le Crime et le Châtiment_, but breathes much of _the - same lovely goodness_.”[17] - - R. L. STEVENSON, _Letters_ - - -I - -INTRODUCTORY - -In the autumn of 1897 I was staying in the South of Russia at the house -of a gentleman who has played no unimportant part in Russian politics. -We were sitting one evening at tea, a party of nearly thirty people -round the table, consisting of country gentlemen, neighbours and -friends. The village doctor was present: he was an ardent Tolstoyist, -and not only an admirer of Tolstoy’s genius, but a disciple, and a -believer in his religious teaching. He had been talking on this subject -for some time, and expressing his hero-worship in emphatic terms, when -the son of my host, a boy at school, only seventeen years of age, yet -familiar with the literature of seven languages, a writer, moreover, of -English and Russian verse, fired up and said: - -“In fifty years’ time we Russians shall blush with shame to think that -we gave Tolstoy such fulsome admiration, when we had at the same time -a genius like Dostoievsky, the latchet of whose shoes Tolstoy is not -worthy to unloose.” - -A few months after this I read an article on Dostoievsky in one of -the literary weeklies in England, in which the writer stated that -Dostoievsky was a mere _fueilletonist_, a concocter of melodrama, to be -ranked with Eugène Sue and Xavier de Montépin. I was struck at the time -by the divergence between English and Russian views on this subject. I -was amazed by the view of the English critic in itself; but the reason -that such a view could be expressed at all is not far to seek, since -there is at this moment no complete translation of Dostoievsky’s works -in England, and no literary translation of the same. Only one of his -books, _Crime and Punishment_, is known at all, and the rest of them -are difficult even to obtain in the English language. - -However this may be, at the present time Dostoievsky’s fame in -Russia is every day becoming more universally and more emphatically -recognised. The present generation are inclined to consider him the -greatest of all their novelists; and although they as a rule, with the -critic Merejkowski, put him equal with Tolstoy as one of the two great -pillars which uphold the Temple of Russian literature, they are for -the most part agreed in thinking that he was a unique product, a more -startling revelation and embodiment of genius, a greater elemental -force, than Tolstoy or any other Russian writer of fiction. In fact, -they hold the same view about him that we do with regard to Shelley in -our poetical literature. We may not think that Shelley is a greater -poet than Keats, Wordsworth, Coleridge or Byron, but he certainly is -a more exceptional incarnation of poetical genius. We can imagine -poets like Keats arising again,--one nearly akin to him and almost -equally exquisite did appear in the shape of Tennyson. We can imagine -there being other writers who would attain to Wordsworth’s simplicity -and communion with nature, but Shelley has as yet been without kith -or kindred, without mate or equal, in the whole range of the world’s -literary history. He does not appear to us like a plant that grows -among others, differing from them only in being more beautiful and -striking, which is true even of poets like Shakespeare, Dante and -Goethe, who reveal in the highest degree qualities which other poets -possess in a lesser degree, and complete and fulfil what the others aim -at and only partially achieve; but Shelley is altogether different in -kind: he aims at and achieves something which is beyond the range and -beyond the ken of other poets. It is as though he were not a man at -all, but an embodiment of certain elemental forces. - -So it is with Dostoievsky. And for this reason those who admire him do -so passionately and extravagantly. It must not be thought that they -do not discern his faults, his incompleteness, and his limitations, -but the positive qualities that he possesses seem to them matchless, -and so precious, so rare, so tremendous, that they annihilate all -petty criticism. The example of Shelley may again serve us here. -Only a pedant, in the face of such flights of genius as “The Cloud,” -the “Ode to the West Wind,” “The Sensitive Plant,” or that high -pageant of grief, fantasy, of “thoughts that breathe and words that -burn,”--“Adonais,”--would apply a magnifying glass to such poems and -complain of the occasional lapses of style or of the mistakes in -grammar which may be found in them. These poems may be full of trivial -lapses of this kind, but such matters are of small account when a -poet has evoked for us a vision of what dwells beyond the veil of the -senses, and struck chords of a music which has the power and the wonder -of a miracle. - -With Dostoievsky the case is somewhat but not in all respects similar. -He possesses a certain quality which is different in kind from those of -any other writer, a power of seeming to get nearer to the unknown, to -what lies beyond the flesh, which is perhaps the secret of his amazing -strength; and, besides this, he has certain great qualities which -other writers, and notably other Russian writers, possess also; but he -has them in so far higher a degree that when seen with other writers -he annihilates them. The combination of this difference in kind and -this difference in degree makes something so strong and so tremendous, -that it is not to be wondered at when we find many critics saying -that Dostoievsky is not only the greatest of all Russian writers, -but one of the greatest writers that the world has ever seen. I am -not exaggerating when I say that such views are held; for instance, -Professor Brückner, a most level-headed critic, in his learned and -exhaustive survey of Russian literature, says that it is not in -_Faust_, but rather in _Crime and Punishment_, that the whole grief of -mankind takes hold of us. - -Even making allowance for the enthusiasm of his admirers, it is true -to say that almost any Russian judge of literature at the present day -would place Dostoievsky as being equal to Tolstoy and immeasurably -above Tourgeniev; in fact, the ordinary Russian critic at the present -day no more dreams of comparing Tourgeniev with Dostoievsky, than it -would occur to an Englishman to compare Charlotte Yonge with Charlotte -Brontë. - -Dostoievsky’s fame came late, although his first book, _Poor Folk_, -made a considerable stir, and the publication of his _Crime and -Punishment_ ensured his popularity. But when I say “fame,” I mean the -universal recognition of him by the best and most competent judges. -This recognition is now an accomplished fact in Russia and also in -Germany. The same cannot be said positively of France, although his -books are for the most part well translated into French, and have -received the warmest and the most acute appreciation at the hands of a -French critic, namely, M. de Vogüé in _Le Roman Russe_.[18] In England, -Dostoievsky cannot be said to be known at all, since the translations -of his works are not only inadequate, but scarce and difficult to -obtain, and it is possible to come across the most amazing judgments -pronounced on them by critics whose judgment on other subjects is -excellent.[19] The reason of this tardy recognition of Dostoievsky in -his own country is that he was one of those men whose innate sense of -fairness and hatred of cant prevent them from whole-heartedly joining -a political party and swallowing its tenets indiscriminately, even -when some of these tenets are nonsensical and iniquitous. He was one -of those men who put truth and love higher than any political cause, -and can fight for such a cause only when the leaders of it, in practice -as well as in theory, never deviate from the one or the other. He was -between two fires: the Government considered him a revolutionary, and -the revolutionaries thought him a retrograde; because he refused to be -blind to the merits of the Government, such as they were, and equally -refused to be blind to the defects of the enemies of the Government. -He therefore attacked not only the Government, but the Government’s -enemies; and when he attacked, it was with thunderbolts. The Liberals -never forgave him this. Dostoievsky was unjustly condemned to spend -four years in penal servitude for a political crime; for having -taken part in a revolutionary propaganda. He returned from Siberia -a Slavophil, and, I will not say a Conservative, as the word is -misleading; but a man convinced not only of the futility of revolution, -but also of the worthlessness of a great part of the revolutionaries. -Nor did the Liberals ever forgive him this. They are only just -beginning to do so now. Moreover, in one of his most powerful books, -_The Possessed_, he draws a scathing picture of all the flotsam and -jetsam of revolution, and not only of the worthless hangers-on who are -the parasites of any such movement, but he reveals the decadence and -worthlessness of some of the men, who by their dominating character -played leading parts and were popular heroes. Still less did the -Liberals forgive him this book; and even now, few Liberal writers -are fair towards it. Again, Dostoievsky was, as I shall show later, -by nature an antagonist of Socialism and a hater of materialism; and -since all the leading men among the Liberals of his time were either -one or the other, if not both, Dostoievsky aroused the enmity of -the whole Liberal camp, by attacking not only its parasites but its -leaders, men of high principle such as Bielinsky, who were obviously -sincere and deserving of the highest consideration and respect. One can -imagine a similar situation in England if at the present time there -were an autocratic government, a backward and ignorant peasantry, and -a small and Liberal movement carried on by a minority of extremely -intellectual men, headed, let us say, by Mr. Bernard Shaw, Lord -Morley, Professor Raleigh, and Sir J. J. Thomson. I purposely take -men of widely different opinions, because in a country where there is -a fight going on for a definite thing, such as a Constitution, there -is a moment when men, who under another régime would be split up into -Liberals and Conservatives, are necessarily grouped together in one -big Liberal camp. Now, let us suppose that the men who were carrying -on this propaganda for reform were undergoing great sacrifices; let us -likewise suppose them to be Socialists and materialists to the core. -Then suppose there should appear a novelist of conspicuous power, -such as George Meredith or Mr. Thomas Hardy or Mr. H. G. Wells, who -by some error was sent to Botany Bay for having been supposed to be -mixed up with a revolutionary propaganda, and on his return announced -that he was an Anti-Revolutionary, violently attacked Mr. Shaw, wrote -a book in which he caricatured him, and drew a scathing portrait of -all his disciples,--especially of the less intelligent among them. One -can imagine how unpopular such an author would be in Liberal circles. -This was the case of Dostoievsky in Russia. It is only fair to add -that his genius has now obtained full recognition, even at the hands -of Liberals, though they still may not be able to tolerate his book, -_The Possessed_. But considering the magnitude of his genius, this -recognition has been, on the whole, a tardy one. For instance, even -in so valuable a book as Prince Kropotkin’s _Ideals and Realities in -Russian Literature_, Dostoievsky receives inadequate treatment and -scanty appreciation. On the other hand, in Merejkowsky’s _Tolstoy and -Dostoievsky_, Merejkowsky, who is also a Liberal, praises Dostoievsky -with complete comprehension and with brilliance of thought and -expression. - - -II - -DOSTOIEVSKY’S LIFE - -Dostoievsky was the son of a staff-surgeon and a tradesman’s daughter. -He was born in a charity hospital, the “Maison de Dieu,” at Moscow, in -1821. He was, as he said, a member of a stray family. His father and -five children lived in a flat consisting of two rooms and a kitchen. -The nursery of the two boys, Michael and Fedor, consisted of a small -part of the entrance hall, which was partitioned off. His family -belonged to the lowest ranks of the nobility, to that stratum of -society which supplied the bureaucracy with its minor public servants. -The poverty surrounding his earliest years was to last until the day of -his death. - -Some people are, as far as money is concerned, like a negative -pole--money seems to fly away from them, or rather, when it comes to -them, to be unable to find any substance it can cleave to. Dostoievsky -was one of these people; he never knew how much money he had, and when -he had any, however little, he gave it away. He was what the French -call a _panier percé_: money went through him as through a sieve. -And however much money he had, it was never he but his friends who -benefited by it. - -He received his earliest education at a small school in Moscow, -where a schoolmaster who taught Russian inspired him and his brother -with a love of literature, of Pushkin’s poetry and other writers, -introduced him also to the works of Walter Scott, and took him to see a -performance of Schiller’s _Robbers_. When his preliminary studies were -ended, he was sent with his brother to a school of military engineers -at St. Petersburg. Here his interest in literature, which had been -first aroused by coming into contact with Walter Scott’s works, was -further developed by his discovery of Balzac, George Sand, and Homer. -Dostoievsky developed a passionate love of literature and poetry. His -favourite author was Gogol. He left this school in 1843 at the age of -twenty-three, with the rank of sub-lieutenant. - -His first success in literature was his novel, _Poor Folk_ (published -in 1846), which he possibly began to write while he was still at -school. He sent this work to a review and awaited the result, utterly -hopeless of its being accepted. One day, at four o’clock in the -morning, just when Dostoievsky was despairing of success and thinking -of suicide, Nekrasov the poet, and Grigorovitch the critic, came to him -and said: “Do you understand yourself what you have written? To have -written such a book you must have possessed the direct inspiration of -an artist.” - -This, said Dostoievsky, was the happiest moment of his life. The book -was published in Nekrasov’s newspaper, and was highly praised on all -sides. He thus at once made a name in literature. But as though Fate -wished to lose no time in proving to him that his life would be a -series of unending struggles, his second story, _The Double_, was a -failure, and his friends turned from him, feeling that they had made -a mistake. From that time onward, his literary career was a desperate -battle, not only with poverty but also with public opinion, and with -political as well as with literary critics. - -Dostoievsky suffered all his life from epilepsy. It has been said that -this disease was brought on by his imprisonment. This is not true: -the complaint began in his childhood, and one of his biographers gives -a hint of its origin: “It dates back,” he writes, “to his earliest -youth, and is connected with a _tragic event_ in their family life.” -This sentence affords us an ominous glimpse into the early years of -Dostoievsky, for it must indeed have been a tragic event which caused -him to suffer from epileptic fits throughout his life. - -In 1849 came the most important event in Dostoievsky’s life. From -1840 to 1847 there was in St. Petersburg a group of young men who met -together to read and discuss the Liberal writers such as Fourier, Louis -Blanc and Prudhon. Towards 1847 these circles widened, and included -officers and journalists: they formed a club under the leadership of -Petrachevsky, a former student, the author of a Dictionary of Foreign -Terms. The club consisted, on the one hand, of certain men, followers -of the Decembrists of 1825, who aimed at the emancipation of the serfs -and the establishment of a Liberal Constitution; and, on the other -hand, of men who were predecessors of the Nihilists, and who looked -forward to a social revolution. The special function of Dostoievsky -in this club was to preach the Slavophil doctrine, according to which -Russia, sociologically speaking, needed no Western models, because -in her workmen’s guilds and her system of mutual reciprocity for -the payment of taxes, she already possessed the means of realising a -superior form of social organisation. - -The meetings of this club took place shortly after the revolutionary -movement which convulsed Western Europe in 1848. The Emperor Nicholas, -who was a strong-minded and a just although a hard man, imbued with a -religious conviction that he was appointed by God to save the crumbling -world, was dreaming of the emancipation of the serfs, and by a fatal -misunderstanding was led to strike at men whose only crime was that -they shared his own aims and ideals. One evening at a meeting of this -club, Dostoievsky had declaimed Pushkin’s Ode on the Abolition of -Serfdom, when some one present expressed a doubt of the possibility -of obtaining this reform except by insurrectionary means. Dostoievsky -is said to have replied: “Then insurrection let it be!” On the 23rd -of April 1849, at five o’clock in the morning, thirty-four suspected -men were arrested. The two brothers Dostoievsky were among them. They -were imprisoned in a citadel, where they remained for eight months. -On the 22nd of December, Dostoievsky was conducted, with twenty-one -others, to the public square, where a scaffold had been erected. The -other prisoners had been released. While they were taking their places -on the scaffold, Dostoievsky communicated the idea of a book which he -wished to write to Prince Monbelli, one of his fellow-prisoners, who -related the incident later. There were, that day, 21 degrees of frost -(Réaumur); the prisoners were stripped to their shirts, and had to -listen to their sentence; the reading lasted over twenty minutes: the -sentence was that they were to be shot. Dostoievsky could not believe -in the reality of the event. He said to one of his comrades: “Is it -possible that we are going to be executed?” The friend of whom he asked -the question pointed to a cart laden with objects which, under the -tarpaulin that covered them, looked like coffins. The Registrar walked -down from the scaffold; the Priest mounted it, taking the cross with -him, and bade the condemned men make their last confession. Only one -man, of the shopkeeper class, did so: the others contented themselves -with kissing the cross. Dostoievsky thus relates the close of the scene -in a letter to his brother: - -“They snapped swords above our heads, they made us put on the long -white shirts worn by persons condemned to death. We were bound in -parties of three to stakes to suffer execution. Being third in the row, -I concluded that I had only a few minutes to live. I thought of you and -your dear ones, and I managed to kiss Pleshtcheev and Dourov, who were -next to me, and to bid them farewell.” - -The officer in charge had already commanded his firing party to -load; the soldiers were already preparing to take aim, when a white -handkerchief was waved in front of them. They lowered their guns, and -Dostoievsky and the other twenty-one learned that the Emperor had -cancelled the sentence of the military tribunal, and commuted the -sentence of death to one of hard labour for four years. The carts -really contained convict uniforms, which the prisoners had to put on at -once, and they started then and there for Siberia. When the prisoners -were unbound, one of them, Grigoriev, had lost his reason. Dostoievsky, -on the other hand, afterwards affirmed that this episode was his -salvation; and never, either on account of this or of his subsequent -imprisonment, did he ever feel or express anything save gratitude. “If -this catastrophe had not occurred,” said Dostoievsky, alluding to his -sentence, his reprieve and his subsequent imprisonment, “I should have -gone mad.” The moments passed by him in the expectation of immediate -death had an ineffaceable effect upon his entire after-life. They -shifted his angle of vision with regard to the whole world. He knew -something that no man could know who had not been through such moments. -He constantly alludes to the episode in his novels, and in _The Idiot_ -he describes it thus, through the mouth of the principal character: - -“I will tell you of my meeting last year with a certain man; this -man was connected with a strange circumstance, strange because it is -a very unusual one. He was once led, together with others, on to the -scaffold, and a sentence was read out which told him that he was to be -shot for a political crime. He spent the interval between the sentence -and the reprieve, which lasted twenty minutes, or at least a quarter of -an hour, with the certain conviction that in a few minutes he should -die. I was very anxious to hear how he would recall his impressions. -He remembered everything with extraordinary clearness, and said that -he would never forget a single one of those minutes. Twenty paces from -the scaffold round which the crowd and the soldiers stood, three stakes -were driven into the ground, there being several prisoners. The first -three were led to the stakes and bound, and the white dress of the -condemned was put on them. This consisted of a long white shirt, and -over their eyes white bandages were bound so that they should not see -the guns. Then in front of each stake a firing party was drawn up. My -friend was No. 8, so he went to the stake in the third batch. A priest -carried the cross to each of them. My friend calculated that he had -five minutes more to live, not more. He said that these five minutes -seemed to him an endless period, infinitely precious. In these five -minutes it seemed to him that he would have so many lives to live that -he need not yet begin to think about his last moment, and in his mind -he made certain arrangements. He calculated the time it would take him -to say good-bye to his comrades; for this he allotted two minutes. He -assigned two more minutes to think one last time of himself, and to -look round for the last time. He remembered distinctly that he made -these three plans, and that he divided his time in this way. He was to -die, aged twenty-seven, healthy and strong, after having said good-bye -to his companions. He remembered that he asked one of them a somewhat -irrelevant question, and was much interested in the answer. Then, after -he had said good-bye to his comrades, came the two minutes which he had -set aside for thinking of himself. He knew beforehand of what he would -think: he wished to represent to himself as quickly and as clearly as -possible how this could be: that now he was breathing and living, and -that in three minutes he would already be something else, some one or -something, but what? and where? All this he felt he could decide in -those two minutes. Not far away was the church, and the cathedral with -its gilded dome was glittering in the sunshine. He remembered that he -looked at the dome with terrible persistence, and on its glittering -rays. He could not tear his gaze away from the rays. It seemed to him -somehow that these rays were his new nature, and that in three minutes -he would be made one with them. The uncertainty and the horror of the -unknown, which was so near, were terrible. But he said that during this -time there was nothing worse than the unceasing thought: ‘What if I do -not die? What if life were restored to me now? What an eternity! And -all this would be mine. I would in that case make every minute into a -century, lose nothing, calculate every moment, and not spend any atom -of the time fruitlessly.’ He said that this thought at last made him so -angry that he wished that they would shoot him at once.” - -Dostoievsky’s sentence consisted of four years’ hard labour in the -convict settlement in Siberia, and this ordeal was doubtless the most -precious boon which Providence could have bestowed on him. When he -started for prison he said to A. Milioukov, as he wished him good-bye: -“The convicts are not wild beasts, but men probably better, and perhaps -much worthier, than myself. During these last months (the months of his -confinement in prison) I have gone through a great deal, but I shall -be able to write about what I shall see and experience in the future.” -It was during the time he spent in prison that Dostoievsky really -found himself. To share the hard labour of the prisoners, to break -up old ships, to carry loads of bricks, to sweep up heaps of snow, -strengthened him in body and calmed his nerves, while the contact with -murderers and criminals and prisoners of all kinds, whose inmost nature -he was able to reach, gave him a priceless opportunity of developing -the qualities which were especially his own both as a writer and as a -man. - -With the criminals he was not in the position of a teacher, but of -a disciple; he learnt from them, and in his life with them he grew -physically stronger, and found faith, certitude and peace. - -At the end of the four years (in 1853) he was set free and returned to -ordinary life, strengthened in body and better balanced in mind. He -had still three years to serve in a regiment as a private soldier, and -after this period of service three years more to spend in Siberia. In -1859 he crossed the frontier and came back to Russia, and was allowed -to live first at Tver and then at St. Petersburg. He brought a wife -with him, the widow of one of his former colleagues in the Petrachevsky -conspiracy, whom he had loved and married in Siberia. Until 1865 he -worked at journalism. - -Dostoievsky’s nature was alien to Socialism, and he loathed the moral -materialism of his Socialistic contemporaries. Petrachevsky repelled -him because he was an atheist and laughed at all belief; and the -attitude of Bielinsky towards religion, which was one of flippant -contempt, awoke in Dostoievsky a passion of hatred which blazed up -whenever he thought of the man. Dostoievsky thus became a martyr, and -was within an ace of losing his life for the revolutionary cause; a -movement in which he had never taken part, and in which he disbelieved -all his life. - -Dostoievsky returned from prison just at the time of the emancipation -of the serfs, and the trials which awaited him on his release were -severer than those which he endured during his captivity. In January -1861 he started a newspaper called the _Vremya_. The venture was a -success. But just as he thought that Fortune was smiling upon him, -and that freedom from want was drawing near, the newspaper, by an -extraordinary misunderstanding, was prohibited by the censorship for -an article on Polish affairs. This blow, like his condemnation to -death, was due to a casual blunder in the official machinery. After -considerable efforts, in 1864 he started another newspaper called the -_Epocha_. This newspaper incurred the wrath, not of the Government -censorship, but of the Liberals; and it was now that his peculiar -situation, namely, that of a man between two fires, became evident. The -Liberals abused him in every kind of manner, went so far as to hint -that the _Epocha_ and its staff were Government spies, and declared -that Dostoievsky was a scribbler with whom the police should deal. At -this same time his brother Michael, his best friend Grigoriev, who -was on the staff of his newspaper, and his first wife, Marie, died -one after another. Dostoievsky was now left all alone; he felt that -his whole life was broken, and that he had nothing to live for. His -brother’s family was left without resources of any kind. He tried -to support them by carrying on the publication of the _Epocha_, and -worked day and night at this, being the sole editor, reading all the -proofs, dealing with the authors and the censorship, revising articles, -procuring money, sitting up till six in the morning, and sleeping -only five out of the twenty-four hours. But this second paper came to -grief in 1865, and Dostoievsky was forced to own himself temporarily -insolvent. He had incurred heavy liabilities, not only to the -subscribers of the newspaper, but in addition a sum of £1400 in bills -and £700 in debts of honour. He writes to a friend at this period: “I -would gladly go back to prison if only to pay off my debts and to feel -myself free once more.” - -A publishing bookseller, Stellovsky, a notorious rascal, threatened -to have him taken up for debt. He had to choose between the debtors’ -prison and flight: he chose the latter, and escaped abroad, where he -spent four years of inexpressible misery, in the last extremity of want. - -His _Crime and Punishment_ was published in 1866, and this book brought -him fame and popularity; yet in spite of this, on an occasion in 1869, -he was obliged to pawn his overcoat and his last shirt in order with -difficulty to obtain two thalers. - -During all this time his attacks of epilepsy continued. He was -constantly in trouble with his publishers, and bound and hampered by -all sorts of contracts. He writes at this epoch: “In spite of all this -I feel as if I were only just beginning to live. It is curious, isn’t -it? I have the vitality of a cat.” And on another occasion he talks of -his stubborn and inexhaustible vitality. He also says through the mouth -of one of his characters, Dimitri Karamazov, “I can bear anything, any -suffering, if I can only keep on saying to myself: ‘I live; I am in a -thousand torments, but I live! I am on the pillory, but I exist! I see -the sun, or I do not see the sun, but I know that it is there. And to -know that there _is_ a sun is enough.’” - -It was during these four years, overwhelmed by domestic calamity, -perpetually harassed by creditors, attacked by the authorities on the -one hand and the Liberals on the other, misunderstood by his readers, -poor, almost starving, and never well, that he composed his three -great masterpieces: _Crime and Punishment_ in 1866, _The Idiot_ in -1868, and _The Possessed_ in 1871-2; besides planning _The Brothers -Karamazov_. He had married a second time, in 1867. He returned to -Russia in July 1871: his second exile was over. His popularity had -increased, and the success of his books enabled him to free himself -from debt. He became a journalist once more, and in 1873 edited -Prince Meschtcherki’s newspaper, _The Grazjdanin_. In 1876 he started -a monthly review called _The Diary of a Writer_, which sometimes -appeared once a month and sometimes less often. The appearance of -the last number coincided with his death. This review was a kind of -encyclopædia, in which Dostoievsky wrote all his social, literary -and political ideas, related any stray anecdotes, recollections and -experiences which occurred to him, and commented on the political and -literary topics of the day. He never ceased fighting his adversaries -in this review; and during this time he began his last book, _The -Brothers Karamazov_, which was never finished. In all his articles he -preached his Slavophil creed, and on one occasion he made the whole of -Russia listen to him and applaud him as one man. This was on June 8, -1880, when he made a speech at Moscow in memory of Pushkin, and aroused -to frenzy the enthusiasm even of those men whose political ideals -were the exact opposite of his own. He made people forget they were -“Slavophils” or “Westernisers,” and remember only one thing--that they -were Russians. - -In the latter half of 1880, when he was working on _The Brothers -Karamazov_, Strakhov records: “He was unusually thin and exhausted; -his body had become so frail that the first slight blow might destroy -it. His mental activity was untiring, although work had grown very -difficult for him. In the beginning of 1881 he fell ill with a severe -attack of emphysema, the result of catarrh in the lung. On January 28 -he had hæmorrhage from the throat. Feeling the approach of death, he -wished to confess and to receive the Blessed Sacrament. He gave the New -Testament used by him in prison to his wife to read aloud. The first -passage chanced to be Matthew iii. 14: “But John held Him back and -said, ‘It is I that should be baptized by Thee, and dost Thou come to -me?’ And Jesus answered and said unto him, ‘Detain Me not; for thus it -behoves us to fulfil a great truth.’” - -When his wife had read this, Dostoievsky said: “You hear: Do not detain -me. That means that I am to die.” And he closed the book. A few hours -later he did actually die, instantaneously, from the rupture of an -artery in the lungs. - -This was on the 28th of January 1881; on the 30th he was buried in -St. Petersburg. His death and his funeral had about them an almost -mythical greatness, and his funeral is the most striking comment on -the nature of the feeling which the Russian public had for him both -as a writer and as a man. On the day after his death, St. Petersburg -witnessed a most extraordinary sight: the little house in which he had -lived suddenly became for the moment the moral centre of Russia. Russia -understood that with the death of this struggling and disease-stricken -novelist, she had lost something inestimably precious, rare and -irreplaceable. Spontaneously, and without any organised preparation, -the most imposing and triumphant funeral ceremony was given to -Dostoievsky’s remains; and this funeral was not only the greatest and -most inspiring which had ever taken place in Russia, but as far as -its inward significance was concerned there can hardly ever have been -a greater one in the world. Other great writers and other great men -have been buried with more gorgeous pomp and with a braver show of -outward display, but never, when such a man has been followed to the -grave by a mourning multitude, have the trophies and tributes of grief -been so real; for striking as they were by their quantity and their -nature, they seemed but a feeble and slender evidence of the sorrow -and the love to which they bore witness. There were deputations bearing -countless wreaths, there were numerous choirs singing religious chants, -there were thousands of people following in a slow stream along the -streets of St. Petersburg, there were men and women of every class, -but mostly poor people, shabbily dressed, of the lower middle or the -lower classes. The dream of Dostoievsky, that the whole of Russia -should be united by a bond of fraternity and brotherly love, seemed -to be realised when this crowd of men, composed of such various and -widely differing elements, met together in common grief by his grave. -Dostoievsky had lived the life of a pauper, and of a man who had to -fight with all his strength in order to win his daily bread. He had -been assailed by disease and hunted by misfortune; his whole life -seemed to have rushed by before he had had time to sit down quietly and -write the great ideas which were seething in his mind. Everything he -had written seemed to have been written by chance, haphazardly, to have -been jotted down against time, between wind and water. But in spite of -this, in his work, however incomplete, however fragmentary and full -of faults it may have been, there was a voice speaking, a particular -message being delivered, which was different from that of other -writers, and at times more precious. While it was there, the public -took it for granted, like the sun; and it was only when Dostoievsky -died that the hugeness of the gap made by his death, caused them to -feel how great was the place he had occupied both in their hearts -and in their minds. It was only when he died that they recognised -how great a man he was, and how warmly they admired and loved him. -Everybody felt this from the highest to the lowest. Tolstoy, in writing -of Dostoievsky’s death, says: “I never saw the man, and never had any -direct relations with him, yet suddenly when he died I understood -that he was the nearest and dearest and most necessary of men to me. -Everything that he did was of the kind that the more he did of it the -better I felt it was for men. And all at once I read that he is dead, -and a prop has fallen from me.” This is what the whole of Russia felt, -that a support had fallen from them; and this is what they expressed -when they gave to Dostoievsky a funeral such as no king nor Captain -has ever had, a funeral whose very shabbiness was greater than any -splendour, and whose trophies and emblems were the grief of a nation -and the tears of thousands of hearts united together in the admiration -and love of a man whom each one of them regarded as his brother. - - -III - -DOSTOIEVSKY’S CHARACTER - -Such, briefly, are the main facts of Dostoievsky’s crowded life. Unlike -Tolstoy, who has himself told us in every conceivable way everything -down to the most intimate detail which is to be known about himself, -Dostoievsky told us little of himself, and all that we know about him -is gathered from other people or from his letters; and even now we -know comparatively little about his life. He disliked talking about -himself; he could not bear to be pitied. He was modest, and shielded -his feelings with a lofty shame. Strakhov writes about him thus: - -“In Dostoievsky you could never detect the slightest bitterness or -hardness resulting from the sufferings he had undergone, and there was -never in him a hint of posing as a martyr. He behaved as if there had -been nothing extraordinary in his past. He never represented himself as -disillusioned, or as not having an equable mind; but, on the contrary, -he appeared cheerful and alert, when his health allowed him to do so. I -remember that a lady coming for the first time to Michael Dostoievsky’s -(his brother’s) evenings at the newspaper office, looked long at -Dostoievsky, and finally said: ‘As I look at you it seems to me that -I see in your face the sufferings which you have endured.’ These words -visibly annoyed Dostoievsky. ‘What sufferings?’ he said, and began to -joke on indifferent matters.” - -Long after his imprisonment and exile, when some friends of his tried -to prove to him that his exile had been a brutal act of injustice, he -said: “The Socialists are the result of the followers of Petrachevsky. -Petrachevsky’s disciples sowed many seeds.” And when he was asked -whether such men deserved to be exiled, he answered: “Our exile was -just; the _people_ would have condemned us.” - -The main characteristics of his nature were generosity, catholicity, -vehement passion, and a “sweet reasonableness.” Once when he was -living with Riesenkampf, a German doctor, he was found living on bread -and milk; and even for that he was in debt at a little milk shop. -This same doctor says that Dostoievsky was “one of those men to live -with whom is good for every one, but who are themselves in perpetual -want.” He was mercilessly robbed, but he would never blame any one -who took advantage of his kindness and his trustfulness. One of his -biographers tells us that his life with Riesenkampf proved expensive to -him, because no poor man who came to see the doctor went away without -having received something from Dostoievsky. One cannot read a page -of his books without being aware of the “sweet reasonableness” of his -nature. This pervaded his writings with fragrance like some precious -balm, and is made manifest to us in the touching simplicity of some -of his characters, such as the Idiot and Alexis Karamazov, to read of -whom is like being with some warm and comforting influence, something -sweet and sensible and infinitely human. His catholicity consists in -an almost boundless power of appreciation, an appreciation of things, -persons and books widely removed from himself by accidents of time, -space, class, nationality and character. Dostoievsky is equally able -to appreciate the very essence of a performance got up by convicts in -his prison, and the innermost beauty of the plays of Racine. This last -point is singular and remarkable. He was universal and cosmopolitan -in his admiration of the literature of foreign countries; and he was -cosmopolitan, not because he wished to cut himself away from Russian -traditions and to become European and Westernised, but because he -was profoundly Russian, and had the peculiarly Russian plastic and -receptive power of understanding and assimilating things widely -different from himself. - -When he was a young man, Shakespeare and Schiller were well known, -and it was the fashion to admire them. It was equally the fashion to -despise the French writers of the seventeenth century. But Dostoievsky -was just as enthusiastic in his admiration of Racine and Corneille and -all the great classics of the seventeenth century. Thus he writes: -“But Phèdre, brother! You will be the Lord knows what if you say this -is not the highest and purest nature and poetry; the outline of it is -Shakespearian, but the statue is in plaster, not in marble.” And again -of Corneille: “Have you read _The Cid_? Read it, you wretch, read it, -and go down in the dust before Corneille!” - -Dostoievsky was constantly “going down in the dust” before the great -masterpieces, not only of his own, but of other countries, which bears -out the saying that “La valeur morale de l’homme est en proportion de -sa faculté d’admirer.” - -Dostoievsky never theorised as to how alms should be given, or as -to how charity should be organised. He gave what he had, simply and -naturally, to those who he saw had need of it; and he had a right to -this knowledge, for he himself had received alms in prison. Neither -did he ever theorise as to whether a man should leave the work which -he was fitted by Providence to do (such as writing books), in order to -plough fields and to cut down trees. He had practised hard labour, -not as a theoretic amateur, but as a constrained professional. He had -carried heavy loads of bricks and broken up ships and swept up heaps of -snow, not out of philosophy or theory, but because he had been obliged -to do so; because if he had not done so he would have been severely -punished. All that Tolstoy dreamed of and aimed at, which was serious -in theory but not serious in practice, that is to say, giving up his -property, becoming one with the people, ploughing the fields, was a -reality to Dostoievsky when he was in prison. He knew that hard labour -is only real when it is a necessity, when you cannot leave off doing it -when you want to; he had experienced this kind of hard labour for four -years, and during his whole life he had to work for his daily bread. -The result of this is that he made no theories about what work a man -_should_ do, but simply did as well as he could the work he _had_ to -do. In the words of a ballade written by Mr. Chesterton, he might have -said: - - “We eat the cheese,--you scraped about the rind, - You lopped the tree--we eat the fruit instead. - You were benevolent, but we were kind, - You know the laws of food, but we were fed.” - -And this is the great difference between Dostoievsky and Tolstoy. -Tolstoy was benevolent, but Dostoievsky was kind. Tolstoy theorised on -the distribution of food, but Dostoievsky was fed and received alms -like a beggar. Dostoievsky, so far from despising the calling of an -author, or thinking that it was an occupation “thin sown with aught of -profit or delight” for the human race, loved literature passionately. -He was proud of his profession: he was a great man of letters as well -as a great author. “I have never sold,” he wrote, “one of my books -without getting the price down beforehand. I am a literary proletarian. -If anybody wants my work he must ensure me by prepayment.” - -There is something which resembles Dr. Johnson in the way he talks of -his profession and his attitude towards it. But there is, nevertheless, -in the phrase just quoted, something bitterly ironical when one -reflects that he was a poor man all his life and incessantly harassed -by creditors, and that he derived almost nothing from the great -popularity and sale of his books. - -“Dostoievsky,” writes Strakov, “loved literature; he took her -as she was, with all her conditions; he never stood apart from -literature, and he never looked down upon her. This absence of -the least hint of literary snobbishness is in him a beautiful and -touching characteristic. Russian literature was the one lodestar of -Dostoievsky’s life, and he cherished for it a passionate love and -devotion. He knew very well that when he entered the lists he would -have to go into the public market-place, and he was never ashamed of -his trade nor of his fellow-workers. On the contrary, he was proud of -his profession, and considered it a great and sacred one.” - -He speaks of himself as a literary hack: he writes at so much a line, -three and a half printed pages of a newspaper in two days and two -nights. “Often,” he says, “it happened in my literary career that the -beginning of the chapter of a novel or story was already set up, and -the end was still in my mind and had to be written by the next day.” -Again: “Work from want and for money has crushed and devoured me. Will -my poverty ever cease? Ah, if I had money, then I should be free!” - -I have said that one of the main elements of Dostoievsky’s character -was vehement passion. There was more than a vehement element of passion -in Dostoievsky; he was not only passionate in his loves and passionate -in his hates, but his passion was unbridled. In this he resembles -the people of the Renaissance. There were perilous depths in his -personality; black pools of passion; a seething whirlpool that sent -up every now and then great eddies of boiling surge; yet this passion -has nothing about it which is undefinably evil; it never smells of the -pit. The reason of this is that although Dostoievsky’s soul descended -into hell, it was purged by the flames, and no poisonous fumes ever -came from it. There was something of St. Francis in him, and something -of Velasquez. Dostoievsky was a violent hater. I have already told -how he hated Bielinsky, the Socialists and the materialists whom he -attacked all his life, but against Tourgeniev he nourished a blind and -causeless hatred. This manifests itself as soon as he leaves prison, in -the following outburst: “I know very well,” he writes, “that I write -worse than Tourgeniev, but not so very much worse, and after all I hope -one day to write quite as well as he does. Why, with my crying wants, -do I receive only 100 roubles a sheet, and Tourgeniev, who possesses -two thousand serfs, receives 400 roubles? Owing to my poverty I am -_obliged_ to hurry, to write for money, and consequently to spoil my -work.” In a postscript he says that he sends Katkov, the great Moscow -editor, fifteen sheets at 100 roubles a sheet, that is, 1500 roubles -in all. “I have had 500 roubles from him, and besides, when I had sent -three-quarters of the novel, I asked him for 200 to help me along, or -700 altogether. I shall reach Tver without a farthing. But, on the -other hand, I shall shortly receive from Katkov seven or eight hundred -roubles.” - -It must not be forgotten that the whole nature of Dostoievsky, both as -man and artist, was profoundly modified by the disease from which he -suffered all his life, his epilepsy. He had therefore two handicaps -against him: disease and poverty. But it is his epilepsy which was -probably the cause of his dislikes, his hatreds and his outbreaks of -violent passion. The attacks of epilepsy came upon him about once a -month, and sometimes, though not often, they were more frequent. He -once had two in a week. His friend Strakov describes one of them thus: -“I once saw one of his ordinary attacks: it was, I fancy, in 1863, -just before Easter. Late in the evening, about eleven o’clock, he came -to see me, and we had a very animated conversation. I cannot remember -the subject, but I know that it was important and abstruse. He became -excited, and walked about the room while I sat at the table. He said -something fine and jubilant. I confirmed his opinion by some remark, -and he turned to me a face which positively glowed with the most -transcendent inspiration. He paused for a moment, as if searching for -words, and had already opened his lips to speak. I looked at him all -expectant for fresh revelation. Suddenly from his open mouth issued a -strange, prolonged, and inarticulate moan. He sank senseless on the -floor in the middle of the room.” - -The ancients called this “the sacred sickness.” Just before the -attacks, Dostoievsky felt a kind of rapture, something like what people -say they feel when they hear very great music, a perfect harmony -between himself and the world, a sensation as if he had reached the -edge of a planet, and were falling off it into infinite space. And this -feeling was such that for some seconds of the rapture, he said, you -might give ten years of your life, or even the whole of it. But after -the attack his condition was dreadful, and he could hardly sustain the -state of low-spirited dreariness and sensitiveness into which he was -plunged. He felt like a criminal, and fancied there hung over him an -invisible guilt, a great transgression. He compares both sensations, -suddenly combined and blended in a flash, to the famous falling pitcher -of Mahomet, which had not time to empty itself while the Prophet -on Allah’s steed was girdling heaven and hell. It is no doubt the -presence of this disease and the frequency of the attacks, which were -responsible for the want of balance in his nature and in his artistic -conceptions, just as his grinding poverty and the merciless conditions -of his existence are responsible for the want of finish in his style. -But Dostoievsky had the qualities of his defects, and it is perhaps -owing to his very illness, and to its extraordinary nature, that he -was able so deeply to penetrate into the human soul. It is as if the -veil of flesh and blood dividing the soul from that which is behind all -things, was finer and more transparent in Dostoievsky than in other -men: by his very illness he may have been able to discern what is -invisible to others. It is certainly owing to the combined poverty and -disease which made up his life, that he had such an unexampled insight -into the lives and hearts of the humble, the rejected, the despised, -the afflicted, and the oppressed. He sounded the utmost depths of human -misery, he lived face to face with the lowest representatives of human -misfortune and disgrace, and he was neither dispirited nor dismayed. He -came to the conclusion that it was all for the best, and like Job in -dust and ashes consented to the eternal scheme. And though all his life -he was one of the conquered, he never ceased fighting, and never for -one moment believed that life was not worth living. On the contrary, he -blessed life and made others bless it. - -His life was “a long disease,” rendered harder to bear and more -difficult by exceptionally cruel circumstances. In spite of this, -Dostoievsky was a happy man: he was happy and he was cheerful; and he -was happy not because he was a saint, but because, in spite of all his -faults, he radiated goodness; because his immense heart overflowed -in kindness, and having suffered much himself, he understood the -sufferings of others; thus although his books are terrible, and deal -with the darkest clouds which can overshadow the human spirit, the -descent into hell of the human soul, yet the main impression left by -them is not one of gloom but one of comfort. Dostoievsky is, above all -things, a healer and a comforter, and this is because the whole of -his teaching, his morality, his art, his character, are based on the -simple foundation of what the Russians call “dolgoterpjenie,” that is, -forbearance, and “smirenie,” that is to say, resignation. In the whole -history of the world’s literature there is no literary man’s life which -was so arduous and so hard; but Dostoievsky never complained, nor, we -can be sure, would he have wished his life to have been otherwise. His -life was a martyrdom, but he enjoyed it. Although no one more nearly -than he bears witness to Heine’s saying that “where a great spirit is, -there is Golgotha,” yet we can say without hesitation that Dostoievsky -was a happy man, and he was happy because he never thought about -himself, and because, consciously or unconsciously, he relieved and -comforted the sufferings of others. And his books continued to do so -long after he ceased to live. - -All this can be summed up in one word: the value of Dostoievsky’s life. -And the whole reason that his books, although they deal with the -tragedies of mankind, bring comfort to the reader instead of gloom, -hope instead of despair, is, firstly, that Dostoievsky was an altruist, -and that he fulfilled the most difficult precept of Christianity--to -love others better than oneself; and, secondly, that in leading us down -in the lowest depths of tragedy, he shows us that where man ends, God -takes up the tale. - - -IV - -_POOR FOLK_ AND THE _LETTERS FROM A DEAD HOUSE_ - -In his first book, _Poor Folk_, which was published in 1846, we -have the germ of all Dostoievsky’s talent and genius. It is true -that he accomplished far greater things, but never anything more -characteristic. It is the story of a poor official, a minor clerk in -a Government office, already aged and worn with cares, who battles -against material want. In his sombre and monotonous life there is a ray -of light: in another house as poor and as squalid as his own, there -lives a girl, a distant relation of his, who is also in hard and humble -circumstances, and who has nothing in the world save the affection -and friendship of this poor clerk. They write to each other daily. -In the man’s letters a discreet unselfishness is revealed, a rare -delicacy of feeling, which is in sharp contrast to the awkwardness -of his everyday actions and ideas, which verge on the grotesque. At -the office, he has to cringe and sacrifice his honour in order not -to forfeit the favour of his superiors. He stints himself, and makes -every kind of small sacrifice, in order that this woman may be relieved -of her privations. He writes to her like a father or brother; but it -is easy for us to see in his simple phrases that he is in love with -her, although she does not realise it. The character of the woman is -equally clear to us: she is superior to him in education and mind, and -she is less resigned to her fate than he is. In the course of their -correspondence we learn all that is to be known about their past, their -melancholy history and the small incidents of their everyday life, the -struggle that is continually working in the mind of the clerk between -his material want and his desire not to lose his personal honour. This -correspondence continues day by day until the crisis comes, and the -clerk loses the one joy of his life, and learns that his friend is -engaged to be married. But she has not been caught up or carried off -in a brilliant adventure: she marries a middle-aged man, very rich and -slightly discredited, and all her last letters are full of commissions -which she trusts to her devoted old friend to accomplish. He is sent to -the dress-makers about her gowns, and to the jeweller about her rings; -and all this he accepts and does with perfect self-sacrifice; and his -sacrifice seems quite accidental, a matter of course: there is not the -slightest pose in it, nor any fuss, and only at the end, in his very -last letter, and even then only in a veiled and discreet form, does he -express anything of the immense sorrow which the blow is bringing to -him. - -The woman’s character is as subtly drawn as the man’s; she is more -independent than he, and less resigned; she is kind and good, and it -is from no selfish motives that she grasps at the improvement in her -fortunes. But she is still young, and her youth rises within her and -imperatively claims its natural desires. She is convinced that by -accepting the proposal which is made to her she will alleviate her -friend’s position as much as her own; moreover, she regards him as -a faithful friend, and nothing more. But we, the outsiders who read -his letters, see clearly that what he feels for her is more than -friendship: it is simply love and nothing else. - -The second important book which Dostoievsky wrote (for the stories he -published immediately after _Poor Folk_ were not up to his mark) was -the _Letters from a Dead House_, which was published on his return to -Russia in 1861. This book may not be his finest artistic achievement, -but it is certainly the most humanly interesting book which he ever -wrote, and one of the most interesting books which exist in the whole -of the world’s literature. In this book he told his prison experiences: -they were put forward in the shape of the posthumous records of a -nobleman who had committed murder out of jealousy, and was condemned -to spend some years in the convict prison. The book is supposed to be -the papers which this nobleman left behind him. They cover a period -of four years, which was the term of Dostoievsky’s sentence. The most -remarkable characteristic of the book is the entire absence of egotism -in the author. Many authors in similar circumstances would have written -volumes of self-analysis, and filled pages with their lamentations -and in diagnosing their sensations. Very few men in such a situation -could have avoided a slight pose of martyrdom. In Dostoievsky there -is nothing of this. He faces the horror of the situation, but he has -no grievance; and the book is all about other people and as little -as possible about himself. And herein lies its priceless value, for -there is no other book either of fiction or travel which throws such a -searching light on the character of the Russian people, and especially -on that of the Russian peasants. Dostoievsky got nearer to the Russian -peasant than any one has ever done, and necessarily so, because he -lived with them on equal terms as a convict. But this alone would not -suffice to produce so valuable a book; something else was necessary, -and the second indispensable factor was supplied by Dostoievsky’s -peculiar nature, his simplicity of mind, his kindness of heart, his -sympathy and understanding. In the very first pages of this book we -are led into the heart of a convict’s life: the _milieu_ rises before -us in startling vividness. The first thing which we are made aware -of is that this prison life has a peculiar character of its own. The -strange family or colony which was gathered together in this Siberian -prison consisted of criminals of every grade and description, and in -which not only every class of Russian society, but every shade and -variety of the Russian people was represented; that is to say, there -were here assassins by profession, and men who had become assassins by -chance, robbers, brigands, tramps, pick-pockets, smugglers, peasants, -Armenians, Jews, Poles, Mussulmans, soldiers who were there for -insubordination and even for murder; officers, gentlemen, and political -prisoners, and men who were there no one knew why. - -Now Dostoievsky points out that at a first glance you could detect one -common characteristic in this strange family. Even the most sharply -defined, the most eccentric and original personalities, who stood -out and towered above their comrades, even these did their best to -adopt the manners and customs, the unwritten code, the etiquette of -the prison. In general, he continues, these people with a very few -exceptions (innately cheerful people who met with universal contempt) -were surly, envious, extraordinarily vain, boastful, touchy, and in -the highest degree punctilious and conventional. To be astonished at -nothing was considered the highest quality; and in all of them the -one aim and obsession was outward demeanour and the wish to keep up -appearances. There were men who pretended to have either great moral -or great physical strength and boasted of it, who were in reality -cowards at heart, and whose cowardice was revealed in a flash. There -were also men who possessed really strong characters; but the curious -thing was, Dostoievsky tells us, that these really strong characters -were abnormally vain. The main and universal characteristic of the -criminal was his vanity, his desire, as the Italians say, to _fare -figura_ at all costs. I have been told that this is true of English -prisons, where prisoners will exercise the most extraordinary ingenuity -in order to shave. The greater part of these people were radically -vicious, and frightfully quarrelsome. The gossip, the backbiting, the -tale-bearing, and the repeating of small calumnies were incessant; yet -in spite of this not one man dared to stand up against the public -opinion of the prison, according to whose etiquette and unwritten law -a particular kind of demeanour was observed. In other words, these -prisoners were exactly like private schoolboys or public schoolboys. At -a public school, boys will create a certain etiquette, which has its -unwritten law; for instance, let us take Eton. At Eton you may walk on -one side of the street but not on the other, unless you are a person -of sufficient importance. When you wear a great-coat, you must always -turn the collar up, unless you are a person of a particular importance. -You must likewise never go about with an umbrella unrolled; and, far -more important than all these questions, there arrives a psychological -moment in the career of an Eton boy when, of his own accord, he wears -a stick-up collar instead of a turned-down collar, by which act he -proclaims to the world that he is a person of considerable importance. -These rules are unwritten and undefined. Nobody tells another boy -not to walk on the wrong side of the road; no boy will ever dream of -turning down his collar, if he is not important enough; and in the -third and more special case, the boy who suddenly puts on a stick-up -collar must feel himself by instinct when that psychological moment -has arrived. It is not done for any definite reason, it is merely the -expression of a kind of atmosphere. He knows at a given moment that -he can or cannot go into stick-ups. Some boys can go into stick-ups -for almost nothing, if they have in their personality the necessary -amount of imponderable prestige; others, though the possessors of many -trophies and colours, can only do so at the last possible minute. But -all must have some definite reason for going into stick-ups: no boy -can go into stick-ups merely because he is clever and thinks a lot of -himself,--that would not only be impossible, but unthinkable. - -Dostoievsky’s account of the convicts reminds me so strongly of the -conduct of private and public schoolboys in England, that, with a -few slight changes, his _Letters from a Dead House_ might be about -an English school, as far as the mere etiquette of the convicts is -concerned. Here, for instance, is a case in point: Dostoievsky says -that there lived in this prison men of dynamic personalities, who -feared neither God nor man, and had never obeyed any one in their -lives; and yet they at once fell in with the standard of behaviour -expected of them. There came to the prison men who had been the terror -of their village and their neighbourhood. Such a “new boy” looked -round, and at once understood that he had arrived at a place where he -could astonish no one, and that the only thing to do was to be quiet -and fall in with the manners of the place, and into what Dostoievsky -calls the universal etiquette, which he defines as follows: “This -etiquette,” he says, “consisted outwardly of a kind of peculiar dignity -with which every inhabitant of the prison was impregnated, as if the -fact of being a convict was, _ipso facto_, a kind of rank, and a -respectable rank.” This is exactly the point of view of a schoolboy -at a private school. A schoolboy prefers to be at home rather than at -school. He knows that he is obliged to be at school, he is obliged to -work against his will, and to do things which are often disagreeable to -him; at the same time his entire efforts are strained to one object, -towards preserving the dignity of his status. That was the great -ambition of the convicts, to preserve the dignity of the status of a -convict. Throughout this book one receives the impression that the -convicts behaved in many ways like schoolboys; in fact, in one place -Dostoievsky says that in many respects they were exactly like children. -He quotes, for instance, their delight in spending the little money -they could get hold of on a smart linen shirt and a belt, and walking -round the whole prison to show it off. They did not keep such finery -long, and nearly always ended by selling it for almost nothing; but -their delight while they possessed it was intense. There was, however, -one curious item in their code of morals, which is singularly unlike -that of schoolboys in England, in Russia, or in any other country: -they had no horror of a man who told tales to the authorities, who, in -schoolboy language, was a sneak. “The Sneak” did not expose himself -to the very smallest loss of caste. Indignation against him was an -unthinkable thing: nobody shunned him, people were friends with him; -and if you had explained in the prison the whole odiousness of his -behaviour, they would not have understood you at all. - -“There was one of the gentlemen prisoners, a vicious and mean fellow, -with whom from the first moment I would have nothing to do. He made -friends with the major’s orderly, and became his spy; and this man -told everything he heard about the prisoners to the major. We all knew -this, and nobody ever once thought of punishing or even of blaming the -scoundrel.” - -This is the more remarkable from the fact that in Russian schools, -and especially in those schools where military discipline prevails, -sneaking is the greatest possible crime. In speaking of another man -who constantly reported everything to the authorities, Dostoievsky -says that the other convicts despised him, not because he sneaked, but -because he did not know how to behave himself properly. - -The convicts, although they never showed the slightest signs of remorse -or regret for anything they had done in the past, were allowed by -their etiquette to express, as it were officially, a kind of outward -resignation, a peaceful logic, such as, “We are a fallen people. We -could not live in freedom, and now we must break stones.... We could -not obey father and mother, and now we must obey the beating of the -drum.” The criminals abused each other mercilessly; they were adepts -in the art, more than adepts, artists. Abuse in their hands became a -science and a fine art; their object was to find not so much the word -that would give pain, as the offensive thought, the spirit, the idea, -as to who should be most venomous, the most razor-like in his abuse. - -Another striking characteristic which also reminds one of schoolboys, -was that the convict would be, as a rule, obedient and submissive in -the extreme. But there were certain limits beyond which his patience -was exhausted, and when once this limit was overstepped by his warders -or the officer in charge, he was ready to do anything, even to commit -murder, and feared no punishment. - -Dostoievsky tells us that during all the time he was in prison he never -noticed among the convicts the slightest sign of remorse, the slightest -burden of spirit with regard to the crimes they had committed; and -the majority of them in their hearts considered themselves perfectly -justified. But the one thing they could not bear, not because it roused -feelings of emotion in them, but because it was against the etiquette -of the place, was that people should dwell upon their past crimes. He -quotes one instance of a man who was drunk--the convicts could get -wine--beginning to relate how he had killed a child of five years old. -The whole prison, which up till then had been laughing at his jokes, -cried out like a man, and the assassin was obliged to be silent. -They did not cry out from indignation, but because it was not _the -thing_ to speak of _that_, because to speak of _that_ was considered -to be violating the unwritten code of the prison. The two things -which Dostoievsky found to be the hardest trials during his life as a -convict were, first, the absolute absence of privacy, since during the -whole four years he was in prison he was never for one minute either -by day or night alone; and, secondly, the bar which existed between -him and the majority of the convicts, owing to the fact that he was a -gentleman. The convicts hated people of the upper class; although such -men were on a footing of social equality with them, the convicts never -recognised them as comrades. Quite unconsciously, even sincerely, they -regarded them as gentlemen, although they liked teasing them about -their change of circumstance. They despised them because they did not -know how to work properly, and Dostoievsky says that he was two years -in prison before he won over some of the convicts, though one can see -from his accounts of what they said to him, how much they must have -liked him, and he admits that the majority of them recognised, after -a time, that he was a good fellow. He points out how much harder such -a sentence was on one of his own class than on a peasant. The peasant -arrives from all ends of Russia, no matter where it be, and finds in -prison the _milieu_ he is accustomed to, and into which he falls at -once without difficulty. He is treated as a brother and an equal by the -people who are there. With a gentleman it is different, and especially, -Dostoievsky tells us, with a political offender, whom the majority of -the convicts hate. He never becomes an equal; they may like him, as -they obviously did in Dostoievsky’s case, but they never regard him as -being on a footing of equality with themselves. They preferred even -foreigners, Germans for instance, to the Russian gentlemen; and the -people they disliked most of all were the gentlemen Poles, because they -were almost exaggeratedly polite towards the convicts, and at the same -time could not conceal their innate hatred of them. With regard to the -effect of this difference of class, Dostoievsky, in the course of the -book, tells a striking story. Every now and then, when the convicts -had a grievance about their food or their treatment, they would go -on strike, and assemble in the prison yard. Dostoievsky relates that -one day there was a strike about the food. As all the convicts were -gathered together in the yard, he joined them, whereupon he was -immediately told that that was not his place, that he had better go -to the kitchen, where the Poles and the other gentlemen were. He was -told this kindly by his friends, and men who were less friendly to him -made it plain by shouting out sarcastic remarks to him. Although he -wished to stay, he was told that he must go. Afterwards the strike was -dispersed and the strikers punished, and Dostoievsky asked a friend -of his, one of the convicts, whether they were not angry with the -gentlemen convicts. - -“Why?” asked this man. - -“Why, because we did not join in the strike.” - -“Why should you have joined in the strike?” asked the convict, trying -to understand, “You buy your own food.” - -“Many of us eat the ordinary food,” answered Dostoievsky, “but I should -have thought that apart from this we ought to have joined, out of -fellowship, out of comradeship.” - -“But you are not our comrade,” said the other man quite simply; and -Dostoievsky saw that the man did not even understand what he meant. -Dostoievsky realised that he could never be a real comrade of these -men; he might be a convict for a century, he might be the most -experienced of criminals, the most accomplished of assassins, the -barrier existing between the classes would never disappear: to them -he would always be a gentleman, it would always be a case of “You go -your way, we go ours.” And this, he said, was the saddest thing he -experienced during the whole of his prison life. - -The thing which perhaps caused him the most pleasure was the insight -he gained into the kindness shown to convicts by outsiders. Alluding -to the doctors in the prison hospital, he says: “It is well known to -prisoners all over Russia that the men who sympathise with them the -most are the doctors: they never make the slightest difference in their -treatment of prisoners, as nearly all outsiders do, except perhaps the -Russian poor. The Russian poor man never blames the prisoner for his -crime, however terrible it may be; he forgives him everything for the -punishment that he is enduring, and for his misfortune in general. -It is not in vain that the whole of the Russian people call crime a -misfortune and criminals ‘unfortunates.’ This definition has a deep -meaning; it is all the more valuable in that it is made unconsciously -and instinctively.” - -It is an incident revealing this pity for the unfortunate which gave -Dostoievsky more pleasure than anything during his stay in prison. It -was the first occasion on which he directly received alms. He relates -it thus: - -“It was soon after my arrival in the prison: I was coming back from my -morning’s work, accompanied only by the guard. There met me a mother -and her daughter. The little girl was ten years old, as pretty as a -cherub; I had already seen them once; the mother was the wife of a -soldier, a widow; her husband, a young soldier, had been under arrest, -and had died in the hospital in the same ward in which I had lain ill. -The wife and the daughter had come to say good-bye to him, and both had -cried bitterly. Seeing me, the little girl blushed, whispered something -to her mother, and she immediately stopped and took out of her bundle a -quarter of a kopeck and gave it to the little girl. The child ran after -me and called out, ‘Unfortunate! For the sake of Christ, take this -copper.’ I took the piece of money, and the little girl ran back to her -mother quite contented. I kept that little piece of money for a very -long time.” - -What is most remarkable about the book, are the many and various -discoveries which Dostoievsky made with regard to human nature: his -power of getting behind the gloomy mask of the criminal to the real man -underneath, his success in detecting the “soul of goodness” in the -criminals. Every single one of the characters he describes stands out -in startling relief; and if one began to quote these one would never -end. Nevertheless I will quote a few instances. - -There is Akim Akimitch, an officer who had earned his sentence thus: -He had served in the Caucasus, and been made governor of some small -fortress. One night a neighbouring Caucasian prince attacked his -fortress and burnt it down, but was defeated and driven back. Akim -Akimitch pretended not to know who the culprit was. A month elapsed, -and Akim Akimitch asked the prince to come and pay him a visit. He -came without suspecting any evil. Akim Akimitch marched out his -troops, and in their presence told him it was exceedingly wrong to -burn down fortresses; and after giving him minute directions as to -what the behaviour of a peaceful prince should be, shot him dead on -the spot, and reported the case to his superiors. He was tried and -condemned to death, but his sentence was commuted to twelve years’ -hard labour. Akim Akimitch had thus once in his life acted according -to his own judgment, and the result had been penal servitude. He had -not common sense enough to see where he had been guilty, but he came -to the conclusion that he never under any circumstances ought to judge -for himself. He thenceforth renounced all initiative of any kind or -sort, and made himself into a machine. He was uneducated, extremely -accurate, and the soul of honesty; very clever with his fingers, he -was by turn carpenter, bootmaker, shoemaker, gilder, and there was no -trade which he could not learn. Akim Akimitch arranged his life in -so methodical a manner in every detail, with such pedantic accuracy, -that at first he almost drove Dostoievsky mad, although Akim Akimitch -was kindness itself to him, and helped him in every possible way -during the first days of his imprisonment. Akim Akimitch appeared to -be absolutely indifferent as to whether he was in prison or not. He -arranged everything as though he were to stay there for the rest of his -life; everything, from his pillow upwards, was arranged as though no -change could possibly occur to him. At first Dostoievsky found the ways -of this automaton a severe trial, but he afterwards became entirely -reconciled to him. - -Then there was Orlov, one of the more desperate criminals. He was a -soldier who had deserted. He was of small stature and slight build, -but he was absolutely devoid of any sort of fear. Dostoievsky says -that never in his life had he met with such a strong, such an iron -character as this man had. There was, in this man, a complete triumph -of the spirit over the flesh. He could bear any amount of physical -punishment with supreme indifference. He was consumed with boundless -energy, a thirst for action, for revenge, and for the accomplishment -of the aim which he set before him. He looked down on everybody in -prison. Dostoievsky says he doubts whether there was any one in the -world who could have influenced this man by his authority. He had a -calm outlook on the world, as though there existed nothing that could -astonish him; and although he knew that the other convicts looked up to -him with respect, there was no trace of swagger about him: he was not -at all stupid, and terribly frank, although not talkative. Dostoievsky -would ask him about his adventures. He did not much like talking about -them, but he always answered frankly. When once he understood, however, -that Dostoievsky was trying to find out whether he felt any pangs of -conscience or remorse for what he had done, he looked at him with a -lofty and utter contempt, as though he suddenly had to deal with some -stupid little boy who could not reason like grown-up people. There -was even an expression of pity in his face, and after a minute or two -he burst out in the simplest and heartiest laugh, without a trace of -irony, and Dostoievsky was convinced that when left to himself he must -have laughed again time after time, so comic did the thought appear to -him. - -One of the most sympathetic characters Dostoievsky describes is a -young Tartar called Alei, who was not more than twenty-two years old. -He had an open, clever, and even beautiful face, and a good-natured -and naïve expression which won your heart at once. His smile was so -confiding, so childlike and simple, his big black eyes so soft and -kind, that it was a consolation merely to look at him. He was in prison -for having taken part in an expedition made by his brothers against a -rich Armenian merchant whom they had robbed. He retained his softness -of heart and simplicity and his strict honesty all the time he was in -prison; he never quarrelled, although he knew quite well how to stand -up for himself, and everybody liked him. “I consider Alei,” writes -Dostoievsky, “as being far from an ordinary personality, and I count my -acquaintance with him as one of the most valuable events of my life. -There are characters so beautiful by nature, so near to God, that even -the very thought that they may some day change for the worse seems -impossible. As far as they are concerned you feel absolutely secure, -and I now feel secure for Alei. Where is he now?” - -I cannot help quoting two incidents in Dostoievsky’s prison life which -seem to me to throw light on the characteristics of the people with -whom he mixed, and their manner of behaviour; the first is a story of -how a young soldier called Sirotkin came to be a convict. Here is the -story which Dostoievsky gives us in the man’s own words: - -“My mother loved me very much. When I became a recruit, I have since -heard, she lay down on her bed and never rose again. As a recruit I -found life bitter. The colonel did not like me, and punished me for -everything. And what for? I was obedient, orderly, I never drank wine, -I never borrowed, and that, Alexander Petrovitch, is a bad business, -when a man borrows. All round me were such hard hearts, there was no -place where one could have a good cry. Sometimes I would creep into -a corner and cry a little there. Once I was standing on guard as a -sentry; it was night. The wind was blowing, it was autumn, and so -dark you could see nothing. And I was so miserable, so miserable! I -took my gun, unscrewed the bayonet, and laid it on the ground; then I -pulled off my right boot, put the muzzle of the barrel to my heart, -leaned heavily on it and pulled the trigger with my big toe. It was -a miss-fire. I examined the gun, cleaned the barrel, put in another -cartridge and again pressed it to my breast. Again a miss-fire. I put -on my boot again, fixed the bayonet, shouldered my gun, and walked up -and down in silence; and I settled that whatever might happen I would -get out of being a recruit. Half an hour later the colonel rode by, at -the head of the patrol, right past me. - -“‘Is that the way to stand on guard?’ he said. - -“I took the gun in my hand and speared him with the bayonet right up to -the muzzle of the gun. I was severely flogged, and was sent here for -life.” - -The second story is about a man who “exchanged” his sentence. It -happened thus: A party of exiles were going to Siberia. Some were -going to prison, some were merely exiled; some were going to work in -factories, but all were going together. They stopped somewhere on the -way in the Government of Perm. Among these exiles there was a man -called Mikhailov, who was condemned to a life sentence for murder. He -was a cunning fellow, and made up his mind to exchange his sentence. He -comes across a simple fellow called Shushilov, who was merely condemned -to a few years’ transportation, that is to say, he had to live in -Siberia and not in European Russia for a few years. This latter man -was naïve, ignorant, and, moreover, had no money of his own. Mikhailov -made friends with him and finally made him drunk, and then proposed to -him an exchange of sentences. Mikhailov said: “It is true that I am -going to prison, but I am going to some _special department_,” which he -explained was a particular favour, as it was a kind of first class. -Shushilov, under the influence of drink, and being simple-minded, -was full of gratitude for the offer, and Mikhailov taking advantage -of his simplicity bought his name from him for a red shirt and a -silver rouble, which he gave him on the spot, before witnesses. On -the following day Shushilov spent the silver rouble and sold the red -shirt for drink also, but as soon as he became sober again he regretted -the bargain. Then Mikhailov said to him: “If you regret the bargain -give me back my money.” This he could not do; it was impossible for -him to raise a rouble. At the next _étape_ at which they stopped, -when their names were called and the officer called out Mikhailov, -Shushilov answered and Mikhailov answered to Shushilov’s name, and the -result was that when they left Tobolsk, Mikhailov was sent somewhere -to spend a few years in exile, and Shushilov became a “lifer”; and the -special department which the other man talked of as a kind of superior -class, turned out to be the department reserved for the most desperate -criminals of all, those who had no chance of ever leaving prison, and -who were most strictly watched and guarded. It was no good complaining; -there was no means of rectifying the mistake. There were no witnesses. -Had there been witnesses they would have perjured themselves. And -so Shushilov, who had done nothing at all, received the severest -sentence the Russian Government had power to inflict, whereas the -other man, a desperate criminal, merely enjoyed a few years’ change -of air in the country. The most remarkable thing about this story is -this: Dostoievsky tells us that the convicts despised Shushilov, not -because he had exchanged his sentence, but because he had made so bad -a bargain, and had only got a red shirt and a silver rouble. Had he -exchanged it for two or three shirts and two or three roubles, they -would have thought it quite natural. - -The whole book is crammed with such stories, each one of which throws a -flood of light on the character of the Russian people. - -These _Letters from a Dead House_ are translated into French, and a -good English translation of them by Marie von Thilo was published by -Messrs. Longmans in 1881. But it is now, I believe, out of print. Yet -if there is one foreign book in the whole world which deserves to be -well known, it is this one. Not only because it throws more light on -the Russian people than any other book which has ever been written, -but also because it tells in the simplest possible way illuminating -things about prisoners and prison life. It is a book which should be -read by all legislators; it is true that the prison life it describes -is now obsolete. It deals with convict life in the fifties, when -everything was far more antiquated, brutal and severe than it is now. -Yet although prisoners had to run the gauntlet between a regiment -of soldiers, and were sometimes beaten nearly to death, in spite of -the squalor of the prison and in spite of the dreariness and anguish -inseparable from their lives, the life of the prisoners stands out in -a positively favourable contrast to that which is led by our convicts -in what Mr. Chesterton calls our “clean and cruel prisons,” where our -prisoners pick oakum to-day in “separate” confinement. The proof of -this is that Dostoievsky was able to write one of the most beautiful -studies of human nature that have ever been written out of his prison -experience. In the first place, the prisoners enjoyed human fellowship. -They all had tobacco; they played cards; they could receive alms, and, -though this was more difficult, they could get wine. There were no -rules forbidding them to speak. Each prisoner had an occupation of his -own, a hobby, a trade, in which he occupied all his leisure time. Had -it not been for this, Dostoievsky says, the prisoners would have gone -mad. One wonders what they would think of an English prison, where the -prisoners are not even allowed to speak to each other. Such a régime -was and is and probably always will be perfectly unthinkable to a -Russian mind. Indeed this point reminds me of a startling phrase of a -Russian revolutionary, who had experiences of Russian prisons. He was -a member of the second Russian Duma; he had spent many years in prison -in Russia. In the winter of 1906 there was a socialistic conference -in London which he attended. When he returned to Russia he was asked -by his fellow-politicians to lecture on the liberty of English -institutions. He refused to do so. “A Russian,” he said, “is freer in -prison than an Englishman is at large.” - -The secret of the merit of this extraordinary book is also the secret -of the unique quality which we find in all Dostoievsky’s fiction. It -is this: Dostoievsky faces the truth; he faces what is bad, what is -worst, what is most revolting in human nature; he does not put on -blinkers and deny the existence of evil, like many English writers, -and he does not, like Zola, indulge in filthy analysis and erect out -of his beastly investigations a pseudo-scientific theory based on the -belief that all human nature is wholly bad. Dostoievsky analyses, not -in order to experiment on the patient and to satisfy his own curiosity, -but in order to cure and to comfort him. And having faced the evil and -recognised it, he proceeds to unearth the good from underneath it; and -he accepts the whole because of the good, and gives thanks for it. -He finds God’s image in the worst of the criminals, and shows it to -us, and for that reason this book is one of the most important books -ever written. Terrible as it is, and sad as it is, no one can read it -without feeling better and stronger and more hopeful. For Dostoievsky -proves to us--so far from complaining of his lot--that life in the Dead -House is not only worth living, but full of unsuspected and unexplored -riches, rare pearls of goodness, shining gems of kindness, and secret -springs of pity. He leaves prison with something like regret, and -he regards his four years’ experience there as a special boon of -Providence, the captain jewel of his life. He goes out saved for ever -from despair, and full of that wisdom more precious than rubies which -is to be found in the hearts of children. - - -V - -_CRIME AND PUNISHMENT_ - -_Crime and Punishment_ was published in 1866. It is a book which -brought Dostoievsky fame and popularity, and by which, in Europe at -any rate, he is still best known. It is the greatest tragedy about a -murderer that has been written since _Macbeth_. - -In the chapter on Tolstoy and Tourgeniev, I pointed out that the -Russian character could roughly be divided into two types, which -dominate the whole of Russian fiction, the two types being Lucifer, the -embodiment of invincible pride, and Ivan Durak, the wise fool. This is -especially true with regard to Dostoievsky’s novels. Nearly all the -most important characters in his books represent one or other of these -two types. Raskolnikov, the hero of _Crime and Punishment_, is the -embodiment of the Lucifer type, and the whole motive and mainspring of -his character is pride. - -Raskolnikov is a Nihilist in the true sense of the word, not a -political Nihilist nor an intellectual Nihilist like Tourgeniev’s -Bazarov, but a moral Nihilist; that is to say, a man who strives to act -without principle and to be unscrupulous, who desires to put himself -beyond and above human moral conventions. His idea is that if he can -trample on human conventions, he will be a sort of Napoleon. He goes -to pawn a jewel at an old woman pawnbroker’s, and the idea which is to -affect his whole future vaguely takes root in his mind, namely, that an -intelligent man, possessed of the fortune of this pawnbroker, could do -anything, and that the only necessary step is to suppress this useless -and positively harmful old woman. He thus expresses the idea later: - -“I used to put myself this question: If Napoleon had found himself -in my position and had not wherewith to begin his career, and there -was neither Toulon, nor Egypt, nor the passage of the Alps, and if -there were, instead of these splendid and monumental episodes, simply -some ridiculous old woman, a usurer whom he would have to kill in -order to get her money, would he shrink from doing this if there were -no other alternative, merely because it would not be a fine deed and -because it would be sinful? Now I tell you that I was possessed by this -problem for a long time, and that I felt deeply ashamed when I at last -guessed, suddenly as it were, that not only would he not be frightened -at the idea, but that the thought that the thing was not important -and grandiose enough would not even enter into his head: he would not -even understand where the need for hesitation lay; and if there were -no other way open to him, he would kill the woman without further -reflection. Well, I ceased reflecting, and I killed her, following the -example of my authority.” - -Raskolnikov is obsessed by the idea, just as Macbeth is obsessed by the -prophecy of the three witches, and circumstances seem to play the part -of Fate in a Greek tragedy, and to lead him against his will to commit -a horrible crime. “He is mechanically forced,” says Professor Brückner -in his _History of Russian Literature_, “into performing the act, as -if he had gone too near machinery in motion, had been caught by a bit -of his clothing, and cut to pieces.” As soon as he has killed the old -woman, he is fatally led into committing another crime immediately -after the first crime is committed. He thinks that by committing -this crime he will have trampled on human conventions, that he will -be above and beyond morality, a Napoleon, a Superman. The tragedy of -the book consists in his failure, and in his realising that he has -failed. Instead of becoming stronger than mankind, he becomes weaker -than mankind; instead of having conquered convention and morality, -he is himself vanquished by them. He finds that as soon as the crime -is committed the whole of his relation towards the world is changed, -and his life becomes a long struggle with himself, a revolt against -the moral consequences of his act. His instinct of self-preservation -is in conflict with the horror of what he has done and the need for -confession. Raskolnikov, as I have said, is the embodiment of pride; -pride is the mainspring of his character. He is proud enough to build -gigantic conceptions, to foster the ambition of placing himself above -and beyond humanity, but his character is not strong enough to bear the -load of his ideas. He thinks he has the makings of a great man in him, -and in order to prove this to himself he commits a crime that would put -an ordinary man beyond the pale of humanity, because he thinks that -being an extraordinary man he will remain within the pale of humanity -and not suffer. His pride suffers a mortal blow when he finds that -he is weak, and that the moral consequences of his act face him at -every turn. He fights against this, he strives not to recognise it; he -deliberately seeks the company of detectives; he discusses murder and -murderers with them minutely, and with a recklessness which leads him -to the very brink of the precipice, when it would need but a word more -for him to betray himself. The examining magistrate, indeed, guesses -that he has committed the crime, and plays with him as a cat plays with -a mouse, being perfectly certain that in the long-run he will confess -of his own accord. The chapters which consist of the duel between these -two men are the most poignant in anguish which I have ever read. I have -seen two of these scenes acted on the stage, and several people in -the audience had hysterics before they were over. At last the moment -of expiation comes, though that of regeneration is still far distant. -Raskolnikov loves a poor prostitute named Sonia. His act, his murder, -has affected his love for Sonia, as it has affected the rest of his -life, and has charged it with a sullen despair. Sonia, who loves him -as the only man who has never treated her with contempt, sees that he -has some great load on his mind, that he is tortured by some hidden -secret. She tries in vain to get him to tell her what it is, but at -last he comes to her with the intention of telling her, and she reads -the speaking secret in his eyes. As soon as she knows, she tells him -that he must kiss the earth which he has stained, and confess to the -whole world that he has committed murder. Then, she says, God will send -him a new life. At first he refuses: he says that society is worse than -he, that greater crimes than his are committed every day; that those -who commit them are highly honoured. Sonia speaks of his suffering, -and of the torture he will undergo by keeping his dread secret, but he -will not yet give in, nor admit that he is not a strong man, that he is -really a _louse_--which is the name he gives to all human beings who -are not “Supermen.” Sonia says that they must go to exile together, and -that by suffering _together_ they will expiate his deed. This is one -of Dostoievsky’s principal ideas, or rather it is the interpretation -and conception of Christianity which you will most frequently meet -with among the Russian people,--that suffering is good in itself, and -especially suffering in common with some one else. - -After Raskolnikov has confessed his crime to Sonia, he still hovers -round and round the police, like a moth fatally attracted by a candle, -and at last he makes open confession, and is condemned to seven years’ -penal servitude. But although he has been defeated in the battle with -his idea, although he has not only failed, but failed miserably, even -after he has confessed his crime and is paying the penalty for it in -prison, his pride still survives. When he arrives in prison, it is not -the hardships of prison life, it is not the hard labour, the coarse -food, the shaven head, the convict’s dress, that weigh on his spirit; -nor does he feel remorse for his crime. But here once more in prison -he begins to criticise and reflect on his former actions, and finds -them neither foolish nor horrible as he did before. “In what,” he -thinks, “was my conception stupider than many conceptions and theories -which are current in the world? One need only look at the matter -from an independent standpoint, and with a point-of-view unbiased by -conventional ideas, and the idea will not seem so strange. And why does -my deed,” he thought to himself, “appear so ugly? In what way was it an -evil deed? My conscience is at rest. Naturally I committed a criminal -offence, I broke the letter of the law and I shed blood. Well, take -my head in return for the letter of the law and make an end of it! Of -course, even many of those men who have benefited mankind and who were -never satiated with power, after they had seized it for themselves, -ought to have been executed as soon as they had taken their first -step, but these people succeeded in taking further steps, and therefore -they are justified: I did not succeed, and therefore perhaps I had not -the right to take the first step.” - -Raskolnikov accordingly considered that his crime consisted solely in -this, that he was not strong enough to carry it through to the end, -and not strong enough not to confess it. He also tortured himself with -another thought: why did he not kill himself as soon as he recognised -the truth? Why did he prefer the weakness of confession? - -The other convicts in the prison disliked him, distrusted him, -and ended by hating him. Dostoievsky’s own experience of convict -life enables him in a short space to give us a striking picture of -Raskolnikov’s relations with the other convicts. He gradually becomes -aware of the vast gulf which there is between him and the others. The -class barrier which rises between him and them, is more difficult -to break down than that caused by a difference in nationality. At -the same time, he noticed that in the prison there were political -prisoners, Poles, for instance, and officers, who looked down on the -other convicts as though they were insects, ciphers of ignorance, and -despised them accordingly. But he is unable to do this, he cannot help -seeing that these ‘ciphers’ are far cleverer in many cases than the -men who look down on them. On the other hand, he is astonished that -they all love Sonia, who has followed him to the penal settlement -where his prison is, and lives in the town. The convicts rarely see -her, meeting her only from time to time at their work; and yet they -adore her, because she has followed Raskolnikov. The hatred of the -other convicts against him grows so strong that one day at Easter, when -he goes to church with them, they turn on him and say: “You have no -right to go to church: you do not believe in God, you are an atheist, -you ought to be killed.” He had never spoken with them of God or of -religion, and yet they wished to kill him as an atheist. He only -narrowly escaped being killed by the timely interference of a sentry. -To the truth of this incident I can testify by personal experience, as -I have heard Russian peasants and soldiers say that such and such a -man was religious and that such and such a man was “godless,” although -these men had never mentioned religion to them; and they were always -right. - -Then Raskolnikov fell ill and lay for some time in delirium in the -hospital. After his recovery he learns that Sonia has fallen ill -herself, and has not been near the prison, and a great sadness comes -over him. At last she recovers, and he meets her one day at his work. -Something melts in his heart, he knows not how or why; he falls at her -feet and cries; and from that moment a new life begins for him. His -despair has rolled away like a cloud: his heart has risen as though -from the dead. - -_Crime and Punishment_, the best known of all Dostoievsky’s works, is -certainly the most powerful. The anguish of mind which Raskolnikov -goes through tortures the reader. Dostoievsky seems to have touched -the extreme limit of suffering which the human soul can experience -when it descends into hell. At the same time, he never seems to be -gloating over the suffering, but, on the contrary, to be revealing the -agonies of the human spirit in order to pour balm upon them. There is -an episode earlier in the story, when Raskolnikov kneels down before -Sonia, and speaks words which might be taken as the motto of this book, -and indeed of nearly all of Dostoievsky’s books: “It is not before you -that I am kneeling, but before all the suffering of mankind.” - -It is in this book more than in any of his other books that one has -the feeling that Dostoievsky is kneeling down before the great agonies -that the human soul can endure: and in doing this, he teaches us how to -endure and how to hope. Apart from the astounding analysis to be found -in the book, and the terrible network of details of which the conflict -between Raskolnikov and his obsession consists: apart from the duel -of tongues between the examining magistrate, who is determined that -the criminal shall be condemned, not on account of any circumstantial -evidence, but by his own confession, and who drives the criminal to -confession by playing upon his obsession: apart from all this main -action, there is a wealth of minor characters, episodes and scenes, -all of which are indispensable to the main thread of tragedy which -runs through the whole. The book, as has been pointed out, did not -receive anything like its full recognition in 1866 when it appeared, -and now, in 1909, it stands higher in the estimation of all those who -are qualified to judge it than it did then. This can be said of very -few books published in Europe in the sixties. For all the so-called -psychological and analytical novels which have been published since -1866 in France and in England not only seem pale and lifeless compared -with Dostoievsky’s fierce revelations, but not one of them has a drop -of his large humanity, or a breath of his fragrant goodness. - - -VI - -_THE IDIOT_ - -Although _Crime and Punishment_ is the most powerful, and probably the -most popular of Dostoievsky’s books, I do not think it is the most -characteristic; that is to say, I do not think it possesses in so -high a degree those qualities which are peculiar to his genius. More -characteristic still is _The Idiot_, in the main character of which the -very soul and spirit of Dostoievsky breathe and live. The hero of _The -Idiot_, Prince Mwishkin, is the type of Ivan Durak, the simple fool who -by his simplicity outwits the wisdom of the wise. - -We make his acquaintance in a third-class railway carriage of the train -which is arriving at St. Petersburg from Warsaw. He is a young man -about twenty-six years old, with thick fair hair, sloping shoulders, -and a very slight fair beard; his eyes are large, light-blue, and -penetrating; in his expression there is something tranquil but -burdensome, something of that strange look which enables physicians -to recognise at a first glance a victim of the falling sickness. In -his hand he is carrying a bundle made of old _foulard_, which is his -whole luggage. A fellow-traveller enters into conversation with him. -He answers with unusual alacrity. Being asked whether he has been -absent long, he says that it is over four years since he was in Russia, -that he was sent abroad on account of his health--on account of some -strange nervous illness like St. Vitus’ dance. As he listens, his -fellow-traveller laughs several times, and especially when to the -question, “Did they cure you?” the fair-haired man answers, “No, they -did not cure me.” The dark-haired man is Rogozhin, a merchant. These -two characters are the two figures round which the drama of the book -centres and is played. - -The purpose of Prince Mwishkin in coming to St. Petersburg is to find -a distant relation of his, the wife of a General Epanchin. He has -already written to her from Switzerland, but has received no answer. -He presents himself at the general’s house with his bundle. A man in -livery opens the door and regards him with suspicion. At last, after he -has explained clearly and at some length that he is Prince Mwishkin, -and that it is necessary for him to see the general on important -business, the servant leads him into a small front-hall into which the -anteroom (where guests are received) of the general’s study opens. -He delivers him into the hands of another servant who is dressed in -black. This man tells the prince to wait in the anteroom and to leave -his bundle in the front-hall. He sits down in his armchair and looks -with severe astonishment at the prince, who, instead of taking the -suggestion, sits down beside him on a chair, with his bundle in his -hands. - -“If you will allow me,” said the prince, “I would rather wait here -with you. What should I do there alone?” - -“The hall,” answered the servant, “is not the place for you, because -you are a visitor, or in other words, a guest. You wish to see the -general himself?” The servant obviously could not reconcile himself -with the idea of showing in such a visitor, and decided to question him -further. - -“Yes, I have come on business,” began the prince. - -“I do not ask you what is your business. My business is simply to -announce you. But without asking the secretary I said I would not -announce you.” The suspicions of the servant continually seemed to -increase. The prince was so unlike the ordinary run of everyday -visitors. “... You are, so to speak, from abroad?” asked the servant -at last, and hesitated as if he wished to say, “You are really Prince -Mwishkin?” - -“Yes, I have this moment come from the train. I think that you wished -to ask me whether I am really Prince Mwishkin, and that you did not ask -me out of politeness.” - -“H’m!” murmured the astonished servant. - -“I assure you that I was not telling lies, and that you will not get -into trouble on account of me. That I am dressed as I am and carrying -a bundle like this is not astonishing, for at the present moment my -circumstances are not flourishing.” - -“H’m! I am not afraid of that. You see I am obliged to announce you, -and the secretary will come to see you unless ... the matter is like -this: You have not come to beg from the general, may I be so bold as to -ask?” - -“Oh no, you may rest assured of that. I have come on other business.” - -“Pardon me. Please wait for the secretary; he is busy....” - -“Very well. If I shall have to wait long I should like to ask you -whether I might smoke. I have a pipe and some tobacco.” - -“Smoke!” The servant looked at him with contempt, as if he could not -believe his ears. “Smoke? No, you cannot smoke here. And what is more, -you should be ashamed of thinking of such a thing. Well, this is queer!” - -“I did not mean in this room, but I would go somewhere if you would -show me, because I am accustomed to it, and I have not smoked now for -three hours. But as you like.” - -“Now, how shall I announce you?” murmured the servant as though almost -unwillingly to himself. “In the first place you ought not to be here, -but in the anteroom, because you are a visitor, that is to say, a -guest, and I am responsible. Have you come to live here?” he asked, -looking again at the prince’s bundle, which evidently disturbed him. - -“No, I don’t think so; even if they invited me, I should not stay. I -have simply come to make acquaintance, nothing more.” - -“How do you mean, to make acquaintance?” the servant asked, with -trebled suspicion and astonishment. “You said at first that you had -come on business.” - -“Well, it’s not exactly business; that is to say, if you like, it _is_ -business,--it is only to ask advice. But the chief thing is that I -have come to introduce myself, because I and the general’s wife are -both descendants from the Mwishkins, and besides myself there are no -Mwishkins left.” - -“So, what’s more you are a relation!” said the frightened servant. - -“No, not exactly a relation,--that is to say, if you go back far -enough, we are, of course, relations; but so far back that it doesn’t -count! I wrote to the general’s wife a letter from abroad, but she -did not answer me. All the same, I considered it necessary to make -her acquaintance as soon as I arrived. I am explaining all this to -you so that you should not have any doubts, because I see that you -are disquieted. Announce that it is Prince Mwishkin, and that will be -enough to explain the object of my visit. If they will see me, all will -be well. If they do not, very likely all will be well too. But I don’t -think they can help receiving me, because the general’s wife will -naturally wish to see the oldest, indeed the only representative of her -family; and she is most particular about keeping up relations with her -family, as I have heard.” - -“The conversation of the prince seemed as simple as possible, but the -simpler it was, the more absurd it became under the circumstances; and -the experienced footman could not help feeling something which was -perfectly right between man and man, and utterly wrong between man -and servant. Servants are generally far cleverer than their masters -think, and this one thought that two things might be possible; either -the prince had come to ask for money, or that he was simply a fool -without ambition,--because an ambitious prince would not remain in the -front-hall talking of his affairs with a footman, and would he not -probably be responsible and to blame in either the one case or the -other?” - -I have quoted this episode, which occurs in the second chapter of -the book, in full, because in it the whole character of the prince -is revealed. He is the wise fool. He suffers from epilepsy, and this -“sacred” illness which has fallen on him has destroyed all those parts -of the intellect out of which our faults grow, such as irony, arrogance -and egoism. He is absolutely simple. He has the brains of a man, the -tenderness of a woman and the heart of a child. He knows nothing -of any barriers, either of class or character. He is the same and -absolutely himself with every one he meets. And yet his unsuspicious -_naïveté_, his untarnished sincerity and simplicity, are combined with -penetrating intuition, so that he can read other people’s minds like a -book. - -The general receives him, and he is just as frank and simple with -the general as he has been with the servant. He is entirely without -means, and has nothing in the world save his little bundle. The general -inquires whether his handwriting is good, and resolves to get him some -secretarial work; he gives him 25 roubles, and arranges that the prince -shall live in his secretary’s house. The general makes the prince stay -for luncheon, and introduces him to his family. The general’s wife -is a charming, rather childish person, and she has three daughters, -Alexandra, Adelaide and Aglaia. The prince astonishes them very much -by his simplicity. They cannot quite understand at first whether he is -a child or a knave, but his simplicity conquers them. After they have -talked of various matters, his life in Switzerland, the experiences of -a man condemned to death, which had been related to him and which I -have already quoted, an execution which he had witnessed, one of the -girls asks him if he was ever in love. - -“No,” he says, “I have never been in love ... I was happy otherwise.” - -“How was that?” they ask. - -Then he relates the following: “Where I was living they were all -children, and I spent all my time with the children, and only with -them. They were the children of the village; they all went to school. I -never taught them, there was a schoolmaster for that.... I perhaps did -teach them too, in a way, for I was more with them, and all the four -years that I spent there went in this way. I had need of nothing else. -I told them everything, I kept nothing secret from them. Their fathers -and relations were angry with me because at last the children could not -do without me, and always came round me in crowds, and the schoolmaster -in the end became my greatest enemy. I made many enemies there, all -on account of the children. And what were they afraid of? You can -tell a child everything--everything. I have always been struck by the -thought of how ignorant grown-up people are of children, how ignorant -even fathers and mothers are of their own children. You should conceal -nothing from children under the pretext that they are small, and that -it is too soon for them to know. That is a sad, an unhappy thought. -And how well children themselves understand that their fathers are -thinking they are too small and do not understand anything--when they -really understand everything. Grown-up people do not understand that a -child even in the most difficult matter can give extremely important -advice. Heavens! when one of these lovely little birds looks up at you, -confiding and happy, it is a shame to deceive it. I call them birds -because there is nothing better than birds in the world. To go on with -my story, the people in the village were most angry with me because of -one thing: the schoolmaster simply envied me. At first he shook his -head, and wondered how the children understood everything I told them, -and almost nothing of what he told them. Then he began to laugh at me -when I said to him that we could neither of us teach them anything, but -that they could teach us. And how could he envy me and slander me when -he himself lived with children? Children heal the soul.” - -Into the character of the hero of this book Dostoievsky has put all the -sweetness of his nature, all his sympathy with the unfortunate, all -his pity for the sick, all his understanding and love of children. The -character of Prince Mwishkin reflects all that is best in Dostoievsky. -He is a portrait not of what Dostoievsky was, but of what the author -would like to have been. It must not for a moment be thought that -he imagined that he fulfilled this ideal: he was well aware of -his faults: of the sudden outbursts and the seething deeps of his -passionate nature; his capacity for rage, hatred, jealousy and envy; -none the less Dostoievsky could not possibly have created the character -of Prince Mwishkin, the Idiot, had he not been made of much the same -substance himself. - -All through Dostoievsky’s books, whenever children are mentioned or -appear, the pages breathe a kind of freshness and fragrance like that -of lilies-of-the-valley. Whatever he says about children or whatever -he makes them say, has the rare accent of truth. The smile of children -lights up the dark pages of his books, like spring flowers growing at -the edge of a dark abyss. - -In strong contrast to the character of the prince is the merchant -Rogozhin. He is the incarnation of the second type, that of the -obdurate spirit, which I have already said dominates Dostoievsky’s -novels. He is, perhaps, less proud than Raskolnikov, but he is far -stronger, more passionate and more vehement. His imperious and -unfettered nature is handicapped by no weakness of nerves, no sapping -self-analysis. He is undisciplined and centrifugal. He is not “sicklied -o’er with the pale cast of thought,” but it is his passions and not his -ideas which are too great for the vessel that contains them. Rogozhin -loves Nastasia, a _hetaira_, who has likewise unbridled passions -and impulses. He loves her with all the strength of his violent and -undisciplined nature, and he is tormented by jealousy because she does -not love him, although she cannot help submitting to the influence of -his imperious personality. The jealous poison in him takes so complete -a possession of his body and soul that he ultimately kills Nastasia -almost immediately after she has married him and given herself to him, -because he feels that she is never his own, least of all at the moment -when she abandons herself to him for ever. So great is his passion, -that this woman, even while hating him, cannot resist going to him -against her will, knowing well that he will kill her. - -The description of the night that follows this murder, when Rogozhin -talks all night with the prince in front of the bed where Nastasia is -lying dead, is by its absence of melodrama and its simplicity perhaps -the most icily terrible piece of writing that Dostoievsky ever penned. -The reason why Nastasia does not love Rogozhin is that she loves Prince -Mwishkin, the Idiot, and so does the third daughter of the general, -Aglaia, although he gives them nothing but pity, and never makes love -to them. And here we come to the root-idea and the kernel of the book, -which is the influence which the Idiot exercises on everybody with -whom he comes in contact. Dostoievsky places him in a nest of rascals, -scoundrels and villains, a world of usurers, liars and thieves, -interested, worldly, ambitious and shady. He not only passes unscathed -through all this den of evil, but the most deadly weapons of the -wicked, their astuteness, their cunning and their fraud, are utterly -powerless against his very simplicity, and there is not one of these -people, however crusted with worldliness, however sordid or bad, who -can evade his magical influence. The women at first laugh at him; but -in the end, as I have already said, he becomes a cardinal factor in the -life of both Nastasia the unbridled and passionate woman, and Aglaia -the innocent and intelligent girl: so much so that they end by joining -in a battle of wild jealousy over him, although he himself is naïvely -unconscious of the cause of their dispute. - -This book, more than any other, reveals to us the methods and the -art of Dostoievsky. This method and this art are not unlike those of -Charlotte Brontë. The setting of the picture, the accessories, are -fantastic, sometimes to the verge of impossibility, and this no more -matters than the fantastic setting of _Jane Eyre_ matters. All we see -and all we feel is the white flame of light that burns throughout -the book. We no more care whether a man like General Epanchin could -or could not have existed, or whether the circumstances of his life -are possible or impossible than we care whether the friends of Mr. -Rochester are possible or impossible. Such things seem utterly trivial -in this book, where at every moment we are allowed to look deep down -into the very depths of human nature, to look as it were on the spirit -of man and woman naked and unashamed. For though the setting may be -fantastic if not impossible, though we may never have seen such people -in our lives, they are truer than life in a way: we seem to see right -inside every one of these characters as though they had been stripped -of everything which was false and artificial about them, as though they -were left with nothing but their bared souls, as they will be at the -Day of Judgment. - -With regard to the artistic construction of the book, the method is -the same as that of most of Dostoievsky’s books. In nearly all his -works the book begins just before a catastrophe and occupies the space -of a few days. And yet the book is very long. It is entirely taken -up by conversation and explanation of the conversation. There are no -descriptions of nature; everything is in a dialogue. Directly one -character speaks we hear the tone of his voice. There are no “stage -directions.” We are not told that so and so is such and such a person, -we feel it and recognise it from the very first word he says. On the -other hand, there is a great deal of analysis, but it is never of an -unnecessary kind. Dostoievsky never nudges our elbow, never points -out to us things which we know already, but he illuminates with a -strong searchlight the deeps of the sombre and tortuous souls of his -characters, by showing us what they are themselves thinking, but not -what he thinks of them. His analysis resembles the Greek chorus, and -his books resemble Greek tragedies in the making, rich ore mingled with -dark dross, granite and marble, the stuff out of which Æschylus could -have hewn another _Agamemnon_, or Shakespeare have written another -_King Lear_. - -_The Idiot_ may not be the most artistic of all his books, in the sense -that it is not centralised and is often diffuse, which is not the case -with _Crime and Punishment_, but it is perhaps the most characteristic, -the most personal, for none but Dostoievsky could have invented and -caused to live such a character as Prince Mwishkin, and made him -positively radiate goodness and love. - - -VII - -_THE POSSESSED_ - -_The Possessed_, or _Devils_, which is the literal translation of -the Russian title, is perhaps inferior to Dostoievsky’s other work -as a whole, but in one sense it is the most interesting book which -he ever wrote. There are two reasons for this: in the first place, -his qualities and his defects as a writer are seen in this book -intensified, under a magnifying glass as it were, at their extremes, so -that it both gives you an idea of the furthest range of his powers, and -shows you most clearly the limitations of his genius. Stevenson points -out somewhere that this is the case with Victor Hugo’s least successful -novels. In the second place, the book was far in advance of its time. -In it Dostoievsky shows that he possessed “a prophetic soul.” - -The book deals with the Nihilists who played a prominent part in the -sixties. The explanation of the title is to be found in a quotation -from the 8th chapter of St. Luke’s Gospel. - - “And there was there an herd of many swine feeding on the mountain; - and they besought Him that He would suffer them to enter into them. - And He suffered them. Then went the devils out of the man and entered - into the swine: and the herd ran violently down a steep place into the - lake and were choked. When they that fed them saw what was done, they - fled, and went and told it in the city and in the country. - - “Then they went out to see what was done; and came to Jesus, and found - the man out of whom the devils were departed, sitting at the feet of - Jesus, clothed, and in his right mind; and they were afraid. They also - which saw it, told them by what means he that was possessed of the - devils, was healed.” - -The book, as I have said, undoubtedly reveals Dostoievsky’s powers at -their highest pitch, in the sense that nowhere in the whole range of -his work do we find such isolated scenes of power; scenes which are, so -to speak, white hot with the fire of his soul; and characters in which -he has concentrated the whole dæmonic force of his personality, and the -whole blinding strength of his insight. On the other hand, it shows us, -as I added, more clearly than any other of his books, the nature and -the extent of his limitations. It is almost too full of characters and -incidents; the incidents are crowded together in an incredibly short -space of time, the whole action of the book, which is a remarkably long -one, occupying only the space of a few days, while to the description -of one morning enough space is allotted to make a bulky English novel. -Again, the narrative is somewhat disconnected. You can sometimes -scarcely see the wood for the trees. Of course, these objections are in -a sense hypercritical, because, as far as my experience goes, any one -who takes up this book finds it impossible to put it down until he has -read it to the very end, so enthralling is the mere interest of the -story, so powerful the grip of the characters. I therefore only suggest -these criticisms for those who wish to form an idea of the net result -of Dostoievsky’s artistic scope and achievement. - -With regard to the further point, the “prophetic soul” which speaks in -this book is perhaps that which is its most remarkable quality. The -book was some thirty years ahead of its time: ahead of its time in -the same way that Wagner’s music was ahead of its time,--and this was -not only on account of the characters and the state of things which -it divined and foreshadowed, but also on account of the ideas and the -flashes of philosophy which abound in its pages. When the book was -published, it was treated as a gross caricature, and even a few years -ago, when Professor Brückner first published his _History of Russian -Literature_, he talked of this book as being a satire not of Nihilism -itself, but of the hangers-on, the camp-followers which accompany -every army. “Dostoievsky,” he says, “did not paint the heroes but the -Falstaffs, the silly adepts, the half and wholly crazed adherents of -Nihilism. He was indeed fully within his rights. Of course there were -such Nihilists, particularly between 1862 and 1869, but there were not -only such: even Nechaev, the prototype of Petrushka, impressed us by a -steel-like energy and a hatred for the upper classes which we wholly -miss in the wind-bag and intriguer Petrushka.” - -There is a certain amount of truth in this criticism. It is true -that Dostoievsky certainly painted the Falstaffs and the half-crazy -adherents of Nihilism. But I am convinced that the reason he did not -paint the heroes was that he did not believe in their existence: he -did not believe that the heroes of Nihilism were heroes; this is plain -not only from this book, but from every line which he wrote about the -people who played a part in the revolutionary movement in Russia; and -so far from the leading personage in his book being merely a wind-bag, -I would say that one is almost more impressed by the steel-like energy -of the character, as drawn in this book, than by the sayings and doings -of his prototype--or rather his prototypes in real life. The amazing -thing is that even if a few years ago real life had not furnished -examples of revolutionaries as extreme both in their energy and in -their craziness as Dostoievsky paints them, real life has done so in -the last four years. Therefore, Dostoievsky not only saw with prophetic -divination that should circumstances in Russia ever lead to a general -upheaval, such characters might arise and exercise an influence, but -his prophetic insight has actually been justified by the facts. - -As soon as such circumstances arose, as they did after the Japanese -War of 1904, characters such as Dostoievsky depicted immediately came -to the front and played a leading part. When M. de Vogüé published -his book, _La Roman Russe_, in speaking of _The Possessed_, he said -that he had assisted at several of the trials of Anarchists in 1871, -and he added that many of the men who came up for trial, and many of -the crimes of which they were accused, were identical reproductions -of the men and the crimes imagined by the novelist. If this was true -when applied to the revolutionaries of 1871, it is a great deal truer -applied to those of 1904-1909. That Dostoievsky believed that this -would happen, I think there can be no doubt. Witness the following -passage: - -“Chigalev,” says the leading character of _The Possessed_, speaking of -one of his revolutionary disciples, a man with long ears, “is a man of -genius: a genius in the manner of Fourier, but bolder and cleverer. He -has invented ‘equality.’ In his system, every member of society has an -eye on every one else. To tell tales is a duty. The individual belongs -to the community and the community belongs to the individual. All are -slaves and equal in their bondage. Calumny and assassination can be -used in extreme cases, but the most important thing is equality. The -first necessity is to lower the level of culture science and talent. -A high scientific level is only accessible to superior intellects, and -we don’t want superior intellects. Men gifted with high capacities -have always seized upon power and become despots. Highly gifted men -cannot help being despots, and have always done more harm than good. -They must be exiled or executed. Cicero’s tongue must be cut out, -Copernicus’ eyes must be blinded, Shakespeare must be stoned. That is -Chigalevism. Slaves must be equal. Without despotism, up to the present -time, neither liberty nor equality has existed, but in a herd, equality -should reign supreme,--and that is Chigalevism.... I am all for -Chigalevism. Down with instruction and science! There is enough of it, -as it is, to last thousands of years, but we must organise obedience: -it is the only thing which is wanting in the world. The desire for -culture is an aristocratic desire. As soon as you admit the idea of the -family or of love, you will have the desire for personal property. We -will annihilate this desire: we will let loose drunkenness, slander, -tale-telling, and unheard-of debauchery. We will strangle every genius -in his cradle. We will reduce everything to the same denomination, -complete equality. ‘We have learnt a trade, and we are honest men: we -need nothing else.’ Such was the answer which some English workman made -the other day. The indispensable alone is indispensable. Such will -thenceforth be the watchword of the world, but we must have upheavals. -We will see to that, we the governing class. The slaves must have -leaders. Complete obedience, absolute impersonality, but once every -thirty years Chigalev will bring about an upheaval, and men will begin -to devour each other: always up to a given point, so that we may not -be bored. Boredom is an aristocratic sensation, and in Chigalevism -there will be no desires. We will reserve for ourselves desire and -suffering, and for the slaves there will be Chigalevism.... We will -begin by fermenting disorder; we will reach the people itself. Do you -know that we are already terribly strong? those who belong to us are -not only the men who murder and set fire, who commit injuries after -the approved fashion, and who bite: these people are only in the way. -I do not understand anything unless there be discipline. I myself am -a scoundrel, but I am not a Socialist. Ha, ha! listen! I have counted -them all: the teacher who laughs with the children whom he teaches, at -their God and at their cradle, belongs to us; the barrister who defends -a well-educated assassin by proving that he is more educated than his -victims, and that in order to get money he was obliged to kill, belongs -to us; the schoolboy who in order to experience a sharp sensation -kills a peasant, belongs to us; the juries who systematically acquit -all criminals, belong to us; the judge who at the tribunal is afraid of -not showing himself to be sufficiently liberal, belongs to us; among -the administrators, among the men of letters, a great number belong -to us, and they do not know it themselves. On the other hand, the -obedience of schoolboys and fools has reached its zenith. Everywhere -you see an immeasurable vanity, and bestial, unheard-of appetites. Do -you know how much we owe to the theories in vogue at present alone? -When I left Russia, Littré’s thesis, which likens crime to madness, -was the rage. I return, and crime is already no longer considered even -as madness: it is considered as common sense itself, almost a duty, at -least a noble protest. ‘Why should not an enlightened man kill if he -has need of money?’ Such is the argument you hear. But that is nothing. -The Russian God has ceded his place to drink. The people are drunk, the -mothers are drunk, the children are drunk, the churches are empty. Oh, -let this generation grow: it is a pity we cannot wait. They would be -drunk still. Ah, what a pity that we have no proletariat! But it will -come, it will come. The moment is drawing near.” - -In this declaration of revolutionary faith, Dostoievsky has -concentrated the whole of an ideal on which thousands of ignorant men -in Russia have acted during the last three years. All of the so-called -Hooliganism which came about in Russia after the war, which although -it has greatly diminished has by no means yet been exterminated by a -wholesale system of military court-martials, proceeds from this, and -its adepts are conscious or unconscious disciples of this creed. For -the proletariat which Dostoievsky foresaw is now a living fact, and -a great part of it has been saturated with such ideas. Not all of -it, of course. I do not for a moment mean to say that every ordinary -Russian social-democrat fosters such ideas; but what I do mean to say -is that these ideas exist and that a great number of men have acted on -a similar creed which they have only half digested, and have sunk into -ruin, ruining others in doing so, and have ended by being hanged. - -Thus the book, _Devils_, which, when it appeared in 1871, was thought -a piece of gross exaggeration, and which had not been out long before -events began to show that it was less exaggerated than it appeared at -first sight--has in the last three years, and even in this year of -grace, received further justification by events such as the rôle that -Father Gapon played in the revolutionary movement, and the revelations -which have been lately made with regard to Azev and similar -characters. Any one who finds difficulty in believing a story such as -that which came to light through the Azev revelations, had better read -_The Possessed_. It will throw an illuminating light on the motives -that cause such men to act as they do, and the circumstances that -produce such men. - -The main idea of the book is to show that the whole strength of what -were then the Nihilists and what are now the Revolutionaries,--let us -say the Maximalists,--lies, not in lofty dogmas and theories held by -a vast and splendidly organised community, but simply in the strength -of character of one or two men, and in the peculiar weakness of the -common herd. I say the peculiar weakness with intention. It does not -follow that the common herd, to which the majority of the revolutionary -disciples belong, is necessarily altogether weak, but that though the -men of whom it is composed may be strong and clever in a thousand ways, -they have one peculiar weakness, which is, indeed, a common weakness -of the Russian character. But before going into this question, it is -advisable first to say that what Dostoievsky shows in his book, _The -Possessed_, is that these Nihilists are almost entirely devoid of -ideas; the organisations round which so many legends gather, consist in -reality of only a few local clubs,--in this particular case, of one -local club. All the talk of central committees, executive committees, -and so forth, existed only in the imagination of the leaders. On the -other hand, the character of those few men who were the leaders and who -dominated their disciples, was as strong as steel and as cold as ice. -And what Dostoievsky shows is how this peculiar strength of the leaders -exercised itself on the peculiar weakness of the disciples. Let us now -turn to the peculiar nature of this weakness. Dostoievsky explains it -at the very beginning of the book. In describing one of the characters, -Chatov, who is an unwilling disciple of the Nihilist leaders, he says: - -“He is one of those Russian Idealists whom any strong idea strikes -all of a sudden, and on the spot annihilates his will, sometimes for -ever. They are never able to react against the idea. They believe in -it passionately, and the rest of their life passes as though they were -writhing under a stone which was crushing them.” - -The leading figure of the book is one Peter Verkhovensky, a political -agitator. He is unscrupulous, ingenious, and plausible in the highest -degree, as clever as a fiend, a complete egotist, boundlessly -ambitious, untroubled by conscience, and as hard as steel. His -prototype was Nachaef, an actual Nihilist. The ambition of this man is -to create disorder, and disorder once created, to seize the authority -which must ultimately arise out of any disorder. His means of effecting -this is as ingenious as Chichikov’s method of disposing of “dead -souls” in Gogol’s masterpiece. By imagining a central committee, of -which he is the representative, he organises a small local committee, -consisting of five men called “the Fiver”; and he persuades his dupes -that a network of similar small committees exists all over Russia. He -aims at getting the local committee entirely into his hands, and making -the members of it absolute slaves to his will. His ultimate aim is to -create similar committees all over the country, persuading people in -every new place that the network is ready everywhere else, and that -they are all working in complete harmony and in absolute obedience to -a central committee, which is somewhere abroad, and which in reality -does not exist. This once accomplished, his idea is to create disorder -among the peasants or the masses, and in the general upheaval to seize -the power. It is possible that I am defining his aim too closely, since -in the book one only sees his work, so far as one local committee is -concerned. But it is clear from his character that he has some big idea -at the back of his head. He is not merely dabbling with excitement in a -small local sphere, for all the other characters in the book, however -much they hate him, are agreed about one thing; that in his cold and -self-seeking character there lies an element of sheer enthusiasm. -The manner in which he creates disciples out of his immediate -surroundings, and obtains an unbounded influence over them, is by -playing on the peculiar weakness which I have already quoted as being -the characteristic of Chigalevism. He plays on the one-sidedness of the -Russian character; he plays on the fact that directly one single idea -takes possession of the brain of a certain kind of Russian idealist, as -in the case of Chatov, or Raskolnikov, for instance, he is no longer -able to control it. Peter works on this. He also works on the vanity of -his disciples, and on their fear of not being thought advanced enough. - -“The principal strength,” he says on one occasion, “the cement which -binds everything, is the fear of public opinion, the fear of having -an opinion of one’s own. It is with just such people that success is -possible. I tell you they would throw themselves into the fire if I -told them to do so, if I ordered it. I would only have to say that -they were bad Liberals. I have been blamed for having deceived my -associates here in speaking of a central committee and of ‘innumerable -ramifications.’ But where is the deception? The central committee is -you and me. As to the ramifications, I can have as many as you wish.” - -But as Peter’s plans advance, this cement, consisting of vanity and the -fear of public opinion, is not sufficient for him; he wants a stronger -bond to bind his disciples together, and to keep them under his own -immediate and exclusive control; and such a bond must be one of blood. -He therefore persuades his committee that one of their members, Chatov, -to whom I have already alluded, is a spy. This is easy, because Chatov -is a member of the organisation against his will. He became involved -in the business when he was abroad, in Switzerland; and on the first -possible occasion he says he will have nothing to do with any Nihilist -propaganda, since he is absolutely opposed to it, being a convinced -Slavophil and a hater of all acts of violence. Peter lays a trap for -him. At a meeting of the committee he asks every one of those present -whether, should they be aware that a political assassination were about -to take place, they would denounce the man who was to perform it. With -one exception all answer no, that they would denounce an ordinary -assassin, but that political assassination is not murder. When the -question is put to Chatov he refuses to answer. Peter tells the others -that this is the proof that he is a spy, and that he must be made away -with. His object is that they should kill Chatov, and thenceforth be -bound to him by fear of each other and of him. He has a further plan -for attributing the guilt of Chatov’s murder to another man. He has -come across an engineer named Kirilov. This man is also possessed by -one idea, in the same manner as Raskolnikov and Chatov, only that, -unlike them, his character is strong. His idea is practically that -enunciated many years later by Nietzsche, that of the Superman. Kirilov -is a maniac: the single idea which in his case has taken possession of -him is that of suicide. There are two prejudices, he reasons, which -prevent man committing suicide. One of them is insignificant, the other -very serious, but the insignificant reason is not without considerable -importance: it is the fear of pain. In exposing his idea he argues that -were a stone the size of a six-storied house to be suspended over a -man, he would know that the fall of the stone would cause him no pain, -yet he would instinctively dread its fall, as causing extreme pain. As -long as that stone remained suspended over him, he would be in terror -lest it should cause him pain by its fall, and no one, not even the -most scientific of men, could escape this impression. Complete liberty -will come about only when it will be immaterial to man whether he lives -or not: that is the aim. - -The second cause and the most serious one that prevents men from -committing suicide, is the idea of another world. For the sake of -clearness I will here quote Kirilov’s conversation on this subject -with the narrator of the story, which is told in the first person: - -“... That is to say, punishment?” says his interlocutor. - -“No, that is nothing--simply the idea of another world.” - -“Are there not atheists who already disbelieve in another world?” - -Kirilov was silent. - -“You perhaps judge by yourself.” - -“Every man can judge only by himself,” said Kirilov, blushing. -“Complete liberty will come about when it will be entirely immaterial -to man whether he lives or whether he dies: that is the aim of -everything.” - -“The aim? Then nobody will be able or will wish to live.” - -“Nobody,” he answered. - -“Man fears death, and therefore loves life,” I remarked. “That is how I -understand the matter, and thus has Nature ordained.” - -“That is a base idea, and therein lies the whole imposture. Life is -suffering, life is fear, and man is unhappy. Everything now is in pain -and terror. Man loves life now, because he loves pain and terror. Thus -has he been made. Man gives his life now for pain and fear, and therein -lies the whole imposture. Man is not at present what he ought to be. -A new man will rise, happy and proud, to whom it will be immaterial -whether he lives or dies. That will be the new man. He who vanquishes -pain and fear, he will be God, and the other gods will no longer exist.” - -“Then, according to you, the other God does exist?” - -“He exists without existing. In the stone there is no pain, but in the -fear of the stone there is pain. God is the pain which arises from the -fear of death. He who vanquishes the pain and the fear, he will be God. -Then there will be a new life, a new man, everything new. Then history -will be divided into two parts. From the gorilla to the destruction of -God, and from the destruction of God to....” - -“To the gorilla...?” - -“To the physical transformation of man and of the world. Man will be -God, and will be transformed physically.” - -“How do you think man will be transformed physically?” - -“The transformation will take place in the world, in thought, -sentiments, and actions.” - -“If it will be immaterial to men whether they live or die, then men -will all kill each other. That is perhaps the form the transformation -will take?” - -“That is immaterial. The imposture will be destroyed. He who desires -to attain complete freedom must not be afraid of killing himself. He -who dares to kill himself, has discovered where the error lies. There -is no greater liberty than this: this is the end of all things, and -you cannot go further. He who dares to kill himself is God. It is at -present in every one’s power to bring this about: that God shall be no -more, and that nothing shall exist any more. But nobody has yet done -this.” - -“There have been millions of suicides.” - -“But they have never been inspired with this idea. They have always -killed themselves out of fear, and never in order to kill fear. He who -will kill himself simply in order to kill fear, he will be God.” - -In this last sentence we have the whole idea and philosophy of Kirilov. -He had made up his mind to kill himself, in order to prove that he was -not afraid of death, and he was possessed by that idea, and by that -idea alone. In another place he says that man is unhappy because he -does not know that he is happy: simply for this reason: that is all. -“He who knows that he is happy will become happy at once, immediately.” -And further on he says: “Men are not good, simply because they do not -know they are good. When they realise this, they will no longer commit -crimes. They must learn that they are good, and instantly they will -become good, one and all of them. He who will teach men that they are -good, will end the world.” The man to whom he is talking objects that -He who taught men that they were good was crucified. - -“The man will come,” Kirilov replies, “and his name will be the -Man-God.” - -“The God-Man?” says his interlocutor. - -“No, the Man-God,--there is a difference.” - -Here we have his idea of the Superman.[20] - -As soon as Peter discovers Kirilov’s obsession, he extracts from him a -promise that, as he has determined to commit suicide, and that as it is -quite indifferent to him how and when he does it, he shall do it when -it is useful to him, Peter. Kirilov consents to this, although he feels -himself in no way bound to Peter, and although he sees through him -entirely and completely, and would hate him were his contempt not too -great for hatred. But Peter’s most ambitious plans do not consist merely -in binding five men to him by an indissoluble bond of blood: that is -only the means to an end. The end, as I have already said, is vaguely -to get power; and besides the five men whom he intends to make his -slaves for life, Peter has another and far more important trump card. -This trump card consists of a man, Nicholas Stavrogin, who is the hero -of the book. He is the only son of a widow with a landed estate, and -after being brought up by Peter’s father, an old, harmless and kindly -Radical, he is sent to school at the age of sixteen, and later on goes -into the army, receiving a commission in one of the most brilliant of -the Guards regiments in St. Petersburg. No sooner does he get to St. -Petersburg, than he distinguishes himself by savage eccentricities. He -is what the Russians call a _skandalist_. He is a good-looking young -man of Herculean strength, and quiet, pleasant manners, who every now -and then gives way to the wildest caprices, the most extravagant and -astounding whims, when he seems to lose all control over himself. For -a time he leads the kind of life led by Prince Harry with Falstaff, -and his extravagances are the subject of much talk. He drives over -people in his carriage, and publicly insults a lady of high position. -Finally, he takes part in two duels. In both cases he is the aggressor. -One of his adversaries is killed, and the other severely wounded. On -account of this he is court-martialled, degraded to the ranks, and -has to serve as a common soldier in an infantry regiment. But in 1863 -he has an opportunity of distinguishing himself, and after a time his -military rank is given back to him. It is then that he returns to the -provincial town, where the whole of the events told in the book take -place, and plays a part in Peter’s organisation. Peter regards him, -as I have said, as his trump card, because of the strength of his -character. He is one of those people who represent the extreme Lucifer -quality of the Russian nature. He is proud and inflexible, without any -trace of weakness. There is nothing in the world he is afraid of, and -there is nothing he will not do if he wishes to do it. He will commit -the wildest follies, the most outrageous extravagances, but as it were -_deliberately_, and not as if he were carried away by the impetuosity -of his temperament. On the contrary, he seems throughout to be as cold -as ice, and eternally unruffled and cool; and he is capable when he -chooses of showing a self-control as astonishing and remarkable as -his outbursts of violence. Peter knows very well that he cannot hope -to influence such a man. Stavrogin sees through Peter and despises -him. At the same time, Peter hopes to entangle him in his scheme, as -he entangles the others, and thinks that, this once done, a man with -Stavrogin’s character cannot help being his principal asset. It is on -this very character, however, that the whole of Peter’s schemes break -down. Stavrogin has married a lame, half-witted girl; the marriage is -kept secret, and he loves and is loved by an extremely beautiful girl -called Lisa. Peter conceives the idea of getting a tramp, an ex-convict -who is capable of everything, to murder Stavrogin’s wife and the -drunken brother with whom she lives, and to set fire to a part of the -town and the house where the two are living. He hopes that Stavrogin -will marry Lisa, and then not be able to withdraw from his organisation -for fear of being held responsible for the murder of his wife. - -Stavrogin sees through the whole scheme. He announces his marriage -publicly; but this act, instead of alienating Lisa from him, increases -her passion. Nevertheless Stavrogin’s wife and her brother are -murdered, and a large quarter of the town is burned. When Lisa asks -Stavrogin if he is in any way connected with this murder, he replies -that he was opposed to it, but that he had guessed that they would -be murdered, and that he had taken no steps to prevent it. Lisa -herself is killed, almost by accident, on the scene of the murder of -Stavrogin’s wife. She is killed by an excited man in the crowd, who -holds her responsible for the deed, and thinks that she has come to -gloat over her victims. After this Stavrogin washes his hands of the -whole business, and leaves the town. It is then that Peter carries -out the rest of his plans. Chatov is murdered, and Peter calls upon -Kirilov to fulfil his promise and commit suicide. He wishes him, before -committing the act, to write a paper in which he shall state that he -has disseminated revolutionary pamphlets and proclamations, and that he -has employed the ex-convict who committed the murders. He is also to -add that he has killed Chatov on account of his betrayal. But Kirilov -has not known until this moment that Chatov is dead, and he refuses to -say a word about him. Then begins a duel between these two men in the -night, which is the most exciting chapter in the book, and perhaps one -of the most exciting and terrifying things ever written. Peter is in -terror lest Kirilov should fail him, and Kirilov is determined not to -be a party to Peter’s baseness. Peter plays upon his vanity, and by -subtle taunts excites to a frenzy the man’s monomania, till at last -he consents to sign the paper. Then snatching a revolver he goes into -the next room. Peter waits, not knowing what is going to happen. Ten -minutes pass, and Peter, consumed by anxiety, takes a candle and opens -the door of the room in which Kirilov has shut himself. He opens the -door, and somebody flies at him like a wild beast. He shuts the door -with all his might, and remains listening. He hears nothing, and as he -is now convinced that Kirilov will not commit suicide, he makes up his -mind to kill Kirilov himself, now that he has got the paper. He knows -that in a quarter of an hour his candle will be entirely consumed; he -sees there is nothing else to be done but to kill Kirilov, but at the -same time he does not wish to do it. - -At last he takes the revolver in his right hand and the candle in his -left hand, and with his left hand manages to open the door. The room -is apparently empty. At first he thinks that Kirilov has fled; then he -becomes aware that against the wall, between a window and a cupboard, -Kirilov is standing, stiff and motionless as a ghost. He rushes toward -him. Kirilov remains motionless, but his eye is fixed on Peter, and a -sardonic smile is on his lips, as though he had guessed what was in -Peter’s mind. Peter, losing all self-control, flies at Kirilov, who -knocks the candle out of Peter’s hand, and bites his little finger -nearly in two. Peter beats him on the head with the butt of his -revolver, and escapes from the room. As he escapes, he hears terrifying -screams of “At once! at once! at once!” Peter is running for his life, -and is already in the vestibule of the house, when he hears a revolver -shot. Then he goes back and finds that Kirilov has killed himself. - -This is practically the end of the book. Peter gets away to St. -Petersburg, and all his machinations are discovered. The corpse of -Chatov is found; the declaration in Kirilov’s handwriting at first -misleads the police, but the whole truth soon comes out, since nearly -all the conspirators confess, each being overcome with remorse. Peter -escapes and goes abroad. Nicholas Stavrogin returns to his home from -St. Petersburg; he is not inculpated in any way in the plots, since the -conspirators bear witness that he had nothing to do with them. But he -hangs himself nevertheless. - -As I have said before, the chief characters of this book, Stavrogin, -Peter, Chatov, and Kirilov, who seemed such gross exaggerations -when the book was published, would surprise nobody who has had any -experience of contemporary Russia. Indeed, Peter is less an imitation -of Nechaev than a prototype of Azev. As to Kirilov, there are dozens of -such men, possessed by one idea and one idea only, in Russia. Stavrogin -also is a type which occurs throughout Russian history. Stavrogin has -something of Peter the Great in him, Peter the Great run to seed, and -of such there are also many in Russia to-day. - - -VIII - -_THE BROTHERS KARAMAZOV_ - -The subject of _The Brothers Karamazov_[21] had occupied Dostoievsky’s -mind ever since 1870, but he did not begin to write it until 1879, -and when he died in 1881, only half the book was finished; in fact, -he never even reached what he intended to be the real subject of -the book. The subject was to be the life of a great sinner, Alosha -Karamazov. But when Dostoievsky died, he had only written the prelude, -in itself an extremely long book; and in this prelude he told the story -of the bringing up of his hero, his surroundings and his early life, -and in so doing he tells us all that is important about his hero’s -brothers and father. The story of Alosha’s two brothers, and of their -relations to their father, is in itself so rich in incident and ideas -that it occupies the whole book, and Dostoievsky died before he had -reached the development of Alosha himself. - -The father is a cynical sensualist, utterly wanting in balance, vain, -loquacious, and foolish. His eldest son, Mitya, inherits his father’s -sensuality, but at the same time he has the energy and strength of -his mother, his father’s first wife; Mitya is full of energy and -strength. His nature does not know discipline; and since his passions -have neither curb nor limit, they drive him to catastrophe. His nature -is a mixture of fire and dross, and the dross has to be purged by -intense suffering. Like Raskolnikov, Mitya has to expiate a crime. -Circumstantial evidence seems to indicate that he has killed his -father. Everything points to it, so much so that when one reads the -book without knowing the story beforehand, one’s mind shifts from -doubt to certainty, and from certainty to doubt, just as though one -were following some absorbing criminal story in real life. After a -long series of legal proceedings, cross-examinations, and a trial in -which the lawyers perform miracles of forensic art, Mitya is finally -condemned. I will not spoil the reader’s pleasure by saying whether -Mitya is guilty or not, because there is something more than idle -curiosity excited by this problem as one reads the book. The question -seems to test to the utmost one’s power of judging character, so -abundant and so intensely vivid are the psychological data which the -author gives us. Moreover, the question as to whether Mitya did or did -not kill his father is in reality only a side-issue in the book; the -main subjects of which are, firstly, the character of the hero, which -is made to rise before us in its entirety, although we do not get as -far as the vicissitudes through which it is to pass. Secondly, the -root-idea of the book is an attack upon materialism, and the character -of Alosha forms a part of this attack. Materialism is represented in -the second of the brothers, Ivan Karamazov, and a great part of the -book is devoted to the tragedy and the crisis of Ivan’s life. - -Ivan’s mind is, as he says himself, Euclidean and quite material. -It is impossible, he says, to love men when they are near to you. -You can only love them at a distance. Men are hateful, and there is -sufficient proof of this in the sufferings which children alone have -to endure upon earth. At the same time, his logical mind finds nothing -to wonder at in the universal sufferings of mankind. Men, he says, are -themselves guilty: they were given Paradise, they wished for freedom, -and they stole fire from heaven, knowing that they would thereby -become unhappy; therefore they are not to be pitied. He only knows -that suffering exists, that no one is guilty, that one thing follows -from another perfectly simply, that everything proceeds from something -else, and that everything works out as in an equation. But this is not -enough for him: it is not enough for him to recognise that one thing -proceeds simply and directly from another. He wants something else; -he must needs have compensation and retribution, otherwise he would -destroy himself; and he does not want to obtain this compensation -somewhere and some time, in infinity, but here and now, on earth, so -that he should see it himself. He has not suffered, merely in order -that his very self should supply, by its evil deeds and its passions, -the manure out of which some far-off future harmony may arise. He -wishes to see with his own eyes how the lion shall lie down with the -lamb. The great stumbling-block to him is the question of children: -the sufferings of children. If all men have to suffer, in order that by -their suffering they may build an eternal harmony, what have children -got to do with this? It is inexplicable that they should suffer, and -that it should be necessary for them to attain to an eternal harmony by -their sufferings. Why should _they_ fall into the material earth, and -make manure for some future harmony? He understands that there can be -solidarity in sin between men; he understands the idea of solidarity -and retaliation, but he cannot understand the idea of solidarity with -children in sin. The mocker will say, he adds, that the child will grow -up and have time to sin; but he is not yet grown up. He understands, -he says, what the universal vibration of joy must be, when everything -in heaven and on earth joins in one shout of praise, and every living -thing cries aloud, “Thou art just, O Lord, for Thou hast revealed Thy -ways.” And when the mother shall embrace the man who tormented and tore -her child to bits,--when mother, child, and tormentor shall all join in -the cry, “Lord, Thou art just!” then naturally the full revelation will -be accomplished and everything will be made plain. Perhaps, he says, -he would join in the Hosanna himself, were that moment to come, but he -does not wish to do so; while there is yet time, he wishes to guard -himself against so doing, and therefore he entirely renounces any idea -of the higher harmony. He does not consider it worth the smallest tear -of one suffering child; it is not worth it, because he considers that -such tears are irreparable, and that no compensation can be made for -them; and if they are not compensated for, how can there be an eternal -harmony? But for a child’s tears, he says, there is no compensation, -for retribution--that is to say, the punishment of those who caused -the suffering--is not compensation. Finally, he does not think that -the mother has the right to forgive the man who caused her children to -suffer; she may forgive him for her own sufferings, but she has not -the right to forgive him the sufferings of her children. And without -such forgiveness there can be no harmony. It is for love of mankind -that he does not desire this harmony: he prefers to remain with his -irreparable wrong, for which no compensation can be made. He prefers to -remain with his unavenged and unavengeable injuries and his tireless -indignation. Even if he is not right, they have put too high a price, -he says, on this eternal harmony. “We cannot afford to pay so much for -it; we cannot afford to pay so much for the ticket of admission into -it. Therefore I give it back. And if I am an honest man, I am obliged -to give it back as soon as possible. This I do. It is not because I do -not acknowledge God, only I must respectfully return Him the ticket.” - -The result of Ivan’s philosophy is logical egotism and materialism. But -his whole theory is upset, owing to its being pushed to its logical -conclusion by a half-brother of the Karamazovs, a lackey, Smerdyakov, -who puts into practice the theories of Ivan, and commits first a -crime and then suicide. This and a severe illness combine to shatter -Ivan’s theories. His physical being may recover, but one sees that his -epicurean theories of life cannot subsist. - -In sharp contrast to the two elder brothers is the third brother, -Alosha, the hero of the book. He is one of the finest and most -sympathetic characters that Dostoievsky created. He has the simplicity -of “The Idiot,” without his naïveté, and without the abnormality -arising from epilepsy. He is a normal man, perfectly sane and sensible. -He is the very incarnation of “sweet reasonableness.” He is _Ivan -Durak_, Ivan the Fool, but without being a fool. Alosha, Dostoievsky -says, was in no way a fanatic; he was not even what most people call -a mystic, but simply a lover of human beings; he loved humanity; -all his life he believed in men, and yet nobody would have taken -him for a fool or for a simple creature. There was something in him -which convinced you that he did not wish to be a judge of men, that -he did not wish to claim or exercise the right of judging others. -One remarkable fact about his character, which is equally true of -Dostoievsky’s own character, was that Alosha with this wide tolerance -never put on blinkers, or shut his eyes to the wickedness of man, or -to the ugliness of life. No one could astonish or frighten him, even -when he was quite a child. Every one loved him wherever he went. Nor -did he ever win the love of people by calculation, or cunning, or -by the craft of pleasing. But he possessed in himself the gift of -making people love him. It was innate in him; it acted immediately and -directly, and with perfect naturalness. The basis of his character was -that he was a _Realist_. When he was in the monastery where he spent -a part of his youth, he believed in miracles; but Dostoievsky says, -“Miracles never trouble a Realist; it is not miracles which incline -a Realist to believe. A true Realist, if he is not a believer, will -always find in himself sufficient strength and sufficient capacity to -disbelieve even in a miracle. And if a miracle appears before him as an -undeniable fact, he will sooner disbelieve in his senses than admit the -fact of the miracle. If, on the other hand, he admits it, he will admit -it as a natural fact, which up to the present he was unaware of. The -Realist does not believe in God because he believes in miracles, but he -believes in miracles because he believes in God. If a Realist believes -in God, his realism will necessarily lead him to admit the existence of -miracles also.” - -Alosha’s religion, therefore, was based on common sense, and admitted -of no compromise. As soon as, after having thought about the matter, -he becomes convinced that God and the immortality of the soul exist, -he immediately says to himself quite naturally: “I wish to live for -the future life, and to admit of no half-way house.” And just in the -same way, had he been convinced that God and the immortality of the -soul do not exist, he would have become an atheist and a socialist. For -Dostoievsky says that Socialism is not only a social problem, but an -_atheistic_ problem. It is the problem of the incarnation of atheism, -the problem of a Tower of Babel to be made without God, not in order to -reach Heaven from earth, but to bring Heaven down to earth. - -Alosha wishes to spend his whole life in the monastery, and to give -himself up entirely to religion, but he is not allowed to do so. In the -monastery, Alosha finds a spiritual father, Zosima. This character, -which is drawn with power and vividness, strikes us as being a blend -of saintliness, solid sense, and warm humanity. He is an old man, and -he dies in the convent; but before he dies, he sees Alosha, and tells -him that he must leave the convent for ever; he must go out into -the world, and live in the world, and suffer. “You will have many -adversaries,” he says to him, “but even your enemies will love you. -Life will bring you many misfortunes, but you will be happy on account -of them, and you will bless life and cause others to bless it. That is -the most important thing of all.” Alosha is to go into the world and -submit to many trials, for he is a Karamazov too, and the microbe of -lust which rages in the blood of that family is in him also. He is to -put into practice Father Zosima’s precepts: “Be no man’s judge; humble -love is a terrible power which effects more than violence. Only active -love can bring out faith. Love men and do not be afraid of their sins: -love man in his sin; love all the creatures of God, and pray God to -make you cheerful. Be cheerful as children and as the birds.” These are -the precepts which Alosha is to carry out in the face of many trials. -How he does so we never see, for the book ends before his trials -begin, and all we see is the strength of his influence, the effect of -the sweetness of his character in relation to the trials of his two -brothers, Mitya and Ivan. - -That Dostoievsky should have died before finishing this monumental -work which would have been his masterpiece, is a great calamity. -Nevertheless the book is not incomplete in itself: it is a large piece -of life, and it contains the whole of Dostoievsky’s philosophy and -ideas. Moreover, considered merely as a novel, as a book to be read -from the point of view of being entertained, and excited about what -is going to happen next, it is of enthralling interest. This book, -therefore, can be recommended to a hermit who wishes to ponder over -something deep, in a cell or on a desert island, to a philosopher who -wishes to sharpen his thoughts against a hard whetstone, to a man who -is unhappy and wishes to find some healing balm, or to a man who is -going on a railway journey and wishes for an exciting story to while -away the time. - - -IX - -This study of Dostoievsky, or rather this suggestion for a study of -his work, cannot help being sketchy and incomplete. I have not only -not dealt with his shorter stories, such as _White Nights_, _The -Friend of the Family_, _The Gambler_ and _The Double_, but I have not -even mentioned two longer novels, _The Hobbledehoy_ and _Despised -and Rejected_. The last named, though it suffers from being somewhat -melodramatic in parts, contains as strong a note of pathos as is to be -found in any of Dostoievsky’s books; and an incident of this book has -been singled out by Robert Louis Stevenson as being--together with the -moment when Mark Antony takes off his helmet, and the scene when Kent -has pity on the dying Lear--one of the most greatly moving episodes in -the whole of literature. The reason why I have not dwelt on these minor -works is that to the English reader, unacquainted with Dostoievsky, -an exact and minute analysis of his works can only be tedious. I have -only dealt with the very broadest outline of the case, so as to enable -the reader to make up his mind whether he wishes to become acquainted -with Dostoievsky’s work at all. My object has been merely to open the -door, and not to act as a guide and to show him over every part of -the house. If I have inspired him with a wish to enter the house, I -have succeeded in my task. Should he wish for better-informed guides -and fuller guide-books, he will find them in plenty; but guides and -guide-books are utterly useless to people who do not wish to visit the -country of which they treat. And my sole object has been to give in the -broadest manner possible a rough sketch of the nature of the country, -so as to enable the traveller to make up his mind whether he thinks -it worth while or not to buy a ticket and to set forth on a voyage of -exploration. Should such an one decide that the exploration is to him -attractive and worth his while, I should advise him to begin with _The -Letters from a Dead House_, and to go on with _The Idiot_, _Crime and -Punishment_, and _The Brothers Karamazov_; and to read _The Possessed_ -last of all. If he understands and appreciates _The Letters from a Dead -House_, he will be able to understand and appreciate the character of -Dostoievsky and the main ideas which lie at the root of all his books. -If he is able to understand and appreciate _The Idiot_, he will be able -to understand and appreciate the whole of Dostoievsky’s writings. But -should he begin with _Crime and Punishment_, or _The Possessed_, it is -possible that he might be put off, and relinquish the attempt; just -as it is possible that a man who took up Shakespeare’s plays for the -first time and began with _King Lear_, might make up his mind not to -persevere, but to choose some more cheerful author. And by so doing he -would probably lose a great deal, since a man who is repelled by _King -Lear_ might very well be able to appreciate not only _The Merchant of -Venice_, but _Henry IV_ and the _Winter’s Tale_. If one were asked to -sum up briefly what was Dostoievsky’s message to his generation and -to the world in general, one could do so in two words: love and pity. -The love which is in Dostoievsky’s work is so great, so bountiful, so -overflowing, that it is impossible to find a parallel to it, either -in ancient or in modern literature. It is human, but more than human, -that is to say, divine. Supposing the Gospel of St. John were to be -annihilated and lost to us for ever, although nothing, of course, -could replace it, Dostoievsky’s work would go nearer to recalling the -spirit of it than any other books of any other European writer.[22] -It is the love which faces everything and which shrinks from nothing. -It is the love which that saint felt who sought out the starving and -freezing beggar, and warmed and embraced him, although he was covered -with sores, and who was rewarded by the beggar turning into His Lord -and lifting him up into the infinite spaces of Heaven. - -Dostoievsky tells us that the most complete of his characters, Alosha, -is a Realist, and that was what Dostoievsky was himself. He was a -Realist in the true sense of the word, and he was exactly the contrary -of those people who when they wrote particularly filthy novels in which -they singled out and dwelt at length on certain revolting details of -life, called themselves Realists. He saw things as they really are; -he never shut his eyes or averted his gaze from anything which was -either cruel, hateful, ugly, bitter, diseased or obscene; but the more -he looked at the ugly things, the more firmly he became convinced of -the goodness that is in and behind everything: To put it briefly, -the more clearly he realised mortal misery and sin, the more firmly -he believed in God. Therefore, as I have more than once said in this -study, although he sounds the lowest depths of human gloom, mortal -despair, and suffering, his books are a cry of triumph, a clarion peal, -a hosanna to the idea of goodness and to the glory of God. There is -a great gulf between Dostoievsky and such novelists as make of their -art a clinical laboratory, in which the vices and the sores, and only -the vices and the sores, are dissected and observed, not under a -microscope, but under a magnifying-glass, so that a totally distorted -and exaggerated impression of life is the result. And this is all the -more remarkable, because a large part of his most important characters -are abnormal: monomaniacs, murderers, or epileptics. But it is in -dealing with such characters that the secret of Dostoievsky’s greatness -is revealed. For in contradistinction to many writers who show us what -is insane in the sanest men, who search for and find a spot of disease -in the healthiest body, a blemish in the fairest flower, a flaw in the -brightest ruby, Dostoievsky seeks and finds the sanity of the insane, a -healthy spot in the sorest soul, a gleam of gold in the darkest mine, a -pearl in the filthiest refuse heap, a spring in the most arid desert. -In depicting humanity at its lowest depth of misery and the human soul -at its highest pitch of anguish, he is making a great act of faith, and -an act of charity, and conferring a huge benefit on mankind. For in -depicting the extremest pain of abnormal sufferers, he persuades us of -the good that exists even in such men, and of the goodness that is in -suffering itself; and by taking us in the darkest of dungeons, he gives -us a glimpse such as no one else has given us of infinite light and -love. - -On the other hand, Dostoievsky is equally far removed from such writers -(of which we have plenty in England) who throw a cloak over all evil -things, and put on blinkers, and who, because the existence of evil -is distasteful to them, refuse to admit and face it. Such an attitude -is the direct outcome of either conscious or unconscious hypocrisy. -Dostoievsky has not a grain of hypocrisy in his nature, and therefore -such an attitude is impossible to him. - -Dostoievsky is a Realist, and he sees things as they are all through -life, from the most important matters down to the most trivial. He is -free from cant, either moral or political, and absolutely free from all -prejudice of caste or class. It is impossible for him to think that -because a man is a revolutionary he must therefore be a braver man than -his fellows, or because a man is a Conservative he must therefore be a -more cruel man than his fellows, just as it is impossible for him to -think the contrary, and to believe that because a man is a Conservative -he cannot help being honest, or because a man is a Radical he must -inevitably be a scoundrel. He judges men and things as they are, quite -apart from the labels which they choose to give to their political -opinions. That is why nobody who is by nature a doctrinaire[23] can -appreciate or enjoy the works of Dostoievsky, since any one who bases -his conduct upon theory cannot help at all costs being rudely shocked -at every moment by Dostoievsky’s creed, which is based on reality and -on reality alone. Dostoievsky sees and embraces everything as it really -is. The existence of evil, of ugliness and of suffering, inspires him -with only one thing, and this is pity; and his pity is like that which -King Lear felt on the Heath when he said: - - “Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are, - That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm, - How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides, - Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you - From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en - Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp; - Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel, - That thou may’st shake the superflux to them, - And show the heavens more just.” - -Dostoievsky has a right to say such things, because throughout his life -he not only exposed himself, but was exposed, to feel what wretches -feel; because he might have said as King Lear said to Cordelia: - - “I am bound - Upon a wheel of fire that mine own tears - Do scald like molten lead.” - -He knew what wretches feel, by experience and not by theory, and all -his life he was bound upon a “wheel of fire.” - -With regard to Dostoievsky’s political opinions, he synthesised and -expressed them all in the speech which he made in June 1880, at Moscow, -in memory of Pushkin. “There was never,” he said, “a poet who possessed -such universal receptivity as Pushkin. It was not only that he was -receptive, but this receptivity was so extraordinarily deep, that -he was able to embrace and absorb in his soul the spirit of foreign -nations. No other poet has ever possessed such a gift; only Pushkin; -and Pushkin is in this sense a unique and a prophetic apparition, -since it is owing to this gift, and by means of it, that the strength -of Pushkin--that in him which is national and Russian--found -expression.... For what is the strength of the Russian national spirit -other than an aspiration towards a universal spirit, which shall -embrace the whole world and the whole of mankind? And because Pushkin -expressed the national strength, he anticipated and foretold its -future meaning. Because of this he was a prophet. For what did Peter -the Great’s reforms mean to us? I am not only speaking of what they -were to bring about in the future, but of what they were when they -were carried out. These reforms were not merely a matter of adopting -European dress, habits, instruction and science.... But the men who -adopted them aspired towards the union and the fraternity of the -world. We in no hostile fashion, as would seem to have been the case, -but in all friendliness and love, received into our spirit the genius -of foreign nations, of all foreign nations, without any distinction -of race, and we were able by instinct and at the first glance to -distinguish, to eliminate contradictions, to reconcile differences; -and by this we expressed our readiness and our inclination, we who -had only just been united together and had found expression, to bring -about a universal union of all the great Aryan race. The significance -of the Russian race is without doubt European and universal. To be a -real Russian and to be wholly Russian means only this: to be a brother -of all men, to be universally human. All this is called Slavophilism; -and what we call ‘Westernism’ is only a great, although a historical -and inevitable misunderstanding. To the true Russian, Europe and the -affairs of the great Aryan race, are as dear as the affairs of Russia -herself and of his native country, because our affairs are the affairs -of the whole world, and they are not to be obtained by the sword, but -by the strength of fraternity and by our brotherly effort towards the -universal union of mankind.... And in the long-run I am convinced that -we, that is to say, not we, but the future generations of the Russian -people, shall every one of us, from the first to the last, understand -that to be a real Russian must signify simply this: to strive towards -bringing about a solution and an end to European conflicts; to show to -Europe a way of escape from its anguish in the Russian soul, which is -universal and all-embracing; to instil into her a brotherly love for -all men’s brothers, and in the end perhaps to utter the great and final -word of universal harmony, the fraternal and lasting concord of all -peoples according to the gospel of Christ.” - -So much for the characteristics of Dostoievsky’s moral and political -ideals. There remains a third aspect of the man to be dealt with: his -significance as a writer, as an artist, and as a maker of books; his -place in Russian literature, and in the literature of the world. This -is, I think, not very difficult to define. Dostoievsky, in spite of -the universality of his nature, in spite of his large sympathy and -his gift of understanding and assimilation, was debarred, owing to -the violence and the want of balance of his temperament, which was -largely the result of disease, from seeing life steadily and seeing -it whole. The greatest fault of his genius, his character, and his -work, is a want of proportion. His work is often shapeless, and the -incidents in his books are sometimes fantastic and extravagant to the -verge of insanity. Nevertheless his vision, and his power of expressing -that vision, make up for what they lose in serenity and breadth, by -their intensity, their depth and their penetration. He could not look -upon the whole world with the calm of Sophocles and of Shakespeare; -he could not paint a large and luminous panorama of life unmarred -by any trace of exaggeration, as Tolstoy did. On the other hand, he -realised and perceived certain heights and depths of the human soul -which were beyond the range of Tolstoy, and almost beyond that of -Shakespeare. His position with regard to Tolstoy, Fielding, and other -great novelists is like that of Marlowe with regard to Shakespeare. -Marlowe’s plays compared with those of Shakespeare are like a series -of tumultuous fugues, on the same theme, played on an organ which -possesses but a few tremendous stops, compared with the interpretation -of music, infinitely various in mood, by stringed instruments played -in perfect concord, and rendering the finest and most subtle gradations -and shades of musical phrase and intention. But every now and then the -organ-fugue, with its thunderous bass notes and soaring treble, attains -to a pitch of intensity which no delicacy of blended strings can -rival: So, every now and then, Marlowe, in the scenes, for instance, -when Helena appears to Faustus, when Zenocrate speaks her passion, -when Faustus counts the minutes to midnight, awaiting in an agony of -terror the coming of Mephistopheles, or when Edward II is face to face -with his executioners, reaches a pitch of soaring rapture, of tragic -intensity which is not to be found even in Shakespeare. So it is with -Dostoievsky. His genius soars higher and dives deeper than that of -any other novelist, Russian or European. And what it thus gains in -intensity it loses in serenity, balance and steadiness. Therefore, -though Dostoievsky as a man possesses qualities of universality, he -is not a universal artist such as Shakespeare, or even as Tolstoy, -although he has one eminently Shakespearian gift, and that is the -faculty for discerning the “soul of goodness in things evil.” Yet, as -a writer, he reached and expressed the ultimate extreme of the soul’s -rapture, anguish and despair, and spoke the most precious words of pity -which have been heard in the world since the Gospels were written. -In this man were mingled the love of St. John, and the passion and -the fury of a fiend; but the goodness in him was triumphant over the -evil. He was a martyr; but bound though he was on a fiery wheel, he -maintained that life was good, and he never ceased to cry “Hosanna to -the Lord: for He is just!” For this reason Dostoievsky is something -more than a Russian writer: he is a brother to all mankind, especially -to those who are desolate, afflicted and oppressed. He had “great -allies”: - - “His friends were exaltations, agonies, - And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.” - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[17] These italics are mine. - -[18] No finer estimate of Dostoievsky’s genius exists than M. de -Vogüé’s introduction to _La Maison des Morts_. - -[19] This is, of course, not universal. See Mr. Gosse’s _Questions at -Issue_. - -[20] It is characteristic that Dostoievsky puts the idea of the -“Superman” into the mouth of a monomaniac. - -[21] The French translation of this book is an abridgment. It is quite -incomplete. - -[22] This sentence has been misunderstood by some of my readers and -critics. What I mean is that the Christian charity and love preached -in the Gospel of St. John are reflected more sharply and fully in -Dostoievsky’s books than in those of any other writer I know of. - -[23] By a doctrinaire I mean not a man who has strong principles and -convictions; but a man who deliberately shuts his eyes to those facts -which contradict his theory, and will pursue it to the end even when by -so doing the practice resulting is the contrary of his aim. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -THE PLAYS OF ANTON TCHEKOV - - -Anton Tchekov is chiefly known in Russia as a writer of short -stories.[24] He is a kind of Russian Guy de Maupassant, without the -bitter strength of the French writer, and without the quality which the -French call “cynisme,” which does not mean cynicism, but ribaldry. - -Tchekov’s stories deal for the greater part with the middle classes, -the minor landed gentry, the minor officials, and the professional -classes. Tolstoy is reported to have said that Tchekov was a -photographer, a very talented photographer, it is true, but still only -a photographer. But Tchekov has one quality which is difficult to find -among photographers, and that is humour. His stories are frequently -deliciously droll. They are also often full of pathos, and they -invariably possess the peculiarly Russian quality of simplicity and -unaffectedness. He never underlines his effects, he never nudges the -reader’s elbow. Yet there is a certain amount of truth in Tolstoy’s -criticism. Tchekov does not paint with the great sweeping brush -of a Velasquez, his stories have not the great broad colouring of -Maupassant, they are like mezzotints; and in some ways they resemble -the new triumphs of the latest developments of artistic photography in -subtle effects of light and shade, in delicate tones and half-tones, in -elusive play of atmosphere. - -Apart from its artistic merits or defects, Tchekov’s work is -historically important and interesting. Tchekov represents the extreme -period of stagnation in Russian life and literature. This epoch -succeeded to a period of comparative activity following after the -Russo-Turkish war. For in Russian history one will find that every war -has been followed by a movement, a renascence in ideas, in political -aspirations, and in literature. Tchekov’s work represents the reaction -of flatness subsequent to a transitory ebullition of activity; it -deals with the very class of men which naturally hankers for political -activity, but which in Tchekov’s time was as naturally debarred from it. - -The result was that the aspirations of these people beat their grey -wings ineffectually in a vacuum. The middle class being highly -educated, and, if anything, over-educated, aspiring towards political -freedom, and finding its aspirations to be futile, did one of two -things. It either moped, or it made the best of it. The moping -sometimes expressed itself in political assassination; making the best -of it meant, as a general rule, dismissing the matter from the mind, -and playing vindt. Half the middle class in Russia, a man once said to -me, has run to seed in playing vindt. But what else was there to do? - -Tchekov, more than any other writer, has depicted for us the attitude -of mind, the nature and the feelings of the whole of this generation, -just as Tourgeniev depicted the preceding generation; the aspirations -and the life of the men who lived in the sixties, during the tumultuous -epoch which culminated in the liberation of the serfs. And nowhere can -the quality of this frame of mind, and the perfume, as it were, of -this period be better felt and apprehended than in the plays of Anton -Tchekov; for in his plays we get not only what is most original in his -work as an artist, but the quintessence of the atmosphere, the attitude -of mind, and the shadow of what the _Zeitgeist_ brought to the men of -his generation. - -Before analysing the dramatic work of Tchekov, it is necessary to say a -few words about the Russian stage in general. The main fact about the -Russian stage that differentiates it from ours, and from that of any -other European country, is the absence of the modern French tradition. -The tradition of the “well-made” French play, invented by Scribe, does -not, and never has existed in Russia. - -Secondly, reformers and demolishers of this tradition do not exist -either, for they have nothing to reform or demolish. In Russia it was -never necessary for naturalistic schools to rise with a great flourish -of trumpets, and to proclaim that they were about to destroy the -conventions and artificiality of the stage, and to give to the public, -instead of childish sentimentalities and impossible Chinese puzzles -of intrigue, slices of real life. Had anybody behaved thus in Russia -he would simply have been beating his hands against a door which was -wide open. For the Russian drama, like the Russian novel, has, without -making any fuss about it, never done but one thing--to depict life as -clearly as it saw it, and as simply as it could. - -That is why there has never been a naturalist school in Russia. The -Russians are born realists; they do not have to label themselves -realists, because realism is the very air which they breathe, and the -very blood in their veins. What was labelled realism and naturalism in -other countries simply appeared to them to be a straining after effect. -Even Ibsen, whose great glory was that, having learnt all the tricks -of the stagecraft of Scribe and his followers, he demolished the whole -system, and made Comedies and Tragedies just as skilfully out of the -tremendous issues of real life--even Ibsen had no great influence in -Russia, because what interests Russian dramatists is not so much the -crashing catastrophes of life as life itself, ordinary everyday life, -just as we all see it. “I go to the theatre,” a Russian once said, “to -see what I see every day.” And here we have the fundamental difference -between the drama of Russia and that of any other country. - -Dramatists of other countries, be they English, or French, or German, -or Norwegian, whether they belong to the school of Ibsen, or to that -which found its temple in the Théâtre Antoine at Paris, had one thing -in common; they were either reacting or fighting against something--as -in the case of the Norwegian dramatists--or bent on proving a -thesis--as in the case of Alexandre Dumas _fils_, the Théâtre Antoine -school, or Mr. Shaw--; that is to say, they were all actuated by some -definite purpose; the stage was to them a kind of pulpit. - -On the English stage this was especially noticeable, and what the -English public has specially delighted in during the last fifteen years -has been a sermon on the stage, with a dash of impropriety in it. Now -the Russian stage has never gone in for sermons or theses: like the -Russian novel, it has been a looking-glass for the use of the public, -and not a pulpit for the use of the playwright. This fact is never more -strikingly illustrated than when the translation of a foreign play is -performed in Russia. For instance, when Mr. Bernard Shaw’s play, _Mrs. -Warren’s Profession_, was performed in December, 1907, at the Imperial -State-paid Theatre at St. Petersburg, the attitude of the public and -of the critics was interesting in the extreme. In the first place, -that the play should be produced at the Imperial State-paid Theatre -is an interesting illustration of the difference of the attitude of -the two countries towards the stage. In England, public performance -of this play is forbidden; in America it was hounded off the stage by -an outraged and indignant populace; in St. Petersburg it is produced -at what, in Russia, is considered the temple of respectability, the -home of tradition, the citadel of conservatism. In the audience were a -quantity of young, unmarried girls. The play was beautifully acted, and -well received,[25] but it never occurred to any one that it was either -daring or dangerous or startling; it was merely judged as a story of -English life, a picture of English manners. Some people thought it was -interesting, others that it was uninteresting, but almost all were -agreed in considering it to be too stagey for the Russian taste; and as -for considering it an epoch-making work, that is to say, in the region -of thought and ideas, the very idea was scoffed at. - -These opinions were reflected in the press. In one of the newspapers, -the leading Liberal organ, edited by Professor Milioukov, the -theatrical critic said that Mr. Bernard Shaw was the typical -middle-class Englishman, and satirised the faults and follies of his -class, but that he himself belonged to the class that he satirised, -and shared its limitations. “The play,” they said, “is a typical -middle-class English play, and it suffers from the faults inherent to -this class of English work: false sentiment and melodrama.” - -Another newspaper, the _Russ_, wrote as follows: “Bernard Shaw is -thought to be an _enfant terrible_ in England. In Russia we take -him as a writer, and as a writer only, who is not absolutely devoid -of advanced ideas. In our opinion, his play belongs neither to the -extreme right nor to the extreme left of dramatic literature; it is an -expression of the ideas of moderation which belong to the centre, and -the proof of this is the production of it at our State-paid Theatre, -which in our eyes is the home and shelter of what is retrograde and -respectable.”[26] - -Such was the opinion of the newspaper critic on Mr. Bernard Shaw’s -play. It represented more or less the opinion of the man in the street. -For nearly all European dramatic art, with the exception of certain -German and Norwegian work, strikes the Russian public as stagey and -artificial. If a Russian had written _Mrs. Warren’s Profession_, he -would never have introduced the scene between Crofts and Vivy which -occurs at the end of Act III., because such a scene, to a Russian, -savours of melodrama. On the other hand, he would have had no -hesitation in putting on the stage (at the Imperial State-paid Theatre) -the interior, with all its details, of one of the continental hotels -from which Mrs. Warren derived her income. But, as I have already -said, what interests the Russian dramatist most keenly is not the huge -catastrophes that stand out in lurid pre-eminence, but the incidents, -sometimes important, sometimes trivial, and sometimes ludicrous, which -happen to every human being every day of his life. And nowhere is this -so clearly visible as in the work of Tchekov; for although the plays of -Tchekov--which have not yet been discovered in England, and which will -soon be old-fashioned in Russia--are not a reflection of the actual -state of mind of the Russian people, yet as far as their artistic aim -is concerned, they are more intensely typical, and more successful -in the achievement of their aim than the work of any other Russian -dramatist.[27] - -Tchekov has written in all eleven plays, out of which six are farces -in one act, and five are serious dramas. The farces, though sometimes -very funny, are not important; it is in his serious dramatic work that -Tchekov really found himself, and gave to the world something new and -entirely original. The originality of Tchekov’s plays is not that they -are realistic. Other dramatists--many Frenchmen, for instance--have -written interesting and dramatic plays dealing with poignant -situations, happening to real people in real life. Tchekov’s discovery -is this, that real life, as we see it every day, can be made just as -interesting on the stage as the catastrophes or the difficulties which -are more or less exceptional, but which are chosen by dramatists as -their material because they are dramatic. Tchekov discovered that it is -not necessary for real life to be dramatic in order to be interesting. -Or rather that ordinary everyday life is as dramatic on the stage, if -by dramatic one means interesting, as extraordinary life. He perceived -that things which happen to us every day, which interest us, and affect -us keenly, but which we would never dream of thinking or of calling -dramatic when they occur, may be made as interesting on the stage as -the most far-fetched situations, or the most terrific crises. For -instance, it may affect us keenly to leave for ever a house where we -have lived for many years. It may touch us to the quick to see certain -friends off at a railway station. But we do not call these things -dramatic. They are not dramatic, but they are human. - -Tchekov has realised this, and has put them on the stage. He has -managed to send over the footlights certain feelings, moods, and -sensations, which we experience constantly, and out of which our life -is built. He has managed to make the departure of certain people from a -certain place, and the staying on of certain others in the same place, -as interesting behind the footlights as the tragic histories of Œdipus -or Othello, and a great deal more interesting than the complicated -struggles and problems in which the characters of a certain school -of modern dramatists are enmeshed. Life as a whole never presents -itself to us as a definite mathematical problem, which needs immediate -solution, but is rather composed of a thousand nothings, which together -make something vitally important. Tchekov has understood this, and -given us glimpses of these nothings, and made whole plays out of these -nothings. - -At first sight one is tempted to say that there is no action in the -plays of Tchekov. But on closer study one realises that the action is -there, but it is not the kind usually sought after and employed by men -who write for the stage. Tchekov is, of course, not the first dramatic -writer who has realised that the action which consisted in violent -things happening to violent people is not a whit more interesting, -perhaps a great deal less interesting, than the changes and the -vicissitudes which happen spiritually in the soul of man. Molière knew -this, for _Le Misanthrope_ is a play in which nothing in the ordinary -sense happens. Rostand’s _L’Aiglon_ is a play where nothing in the -ordinary sense happens.[28] But in these plays in the extraordinary -sense everything happens. A violent drama occurs in the soul of the -Misanthrope, and likewise in that of the Duke of Reichstadt. So it -is in Tchekov’s plays. He shows us the changes, the revolutions, -the vicissitudes, the tragedies, the comedies, the struggles, the -conflicts, the catastrophes, that happen in the souls of men, but he -goes a step further than other dramatists in the way in which he shows -us these things. He shows us these things as we ourselves perceive -or guess them in real life, without the help of poetic soliloquies -or monologues, without the help of a Greek chorus or a worldly -_raisonneur_, and without the aid of startling events which strip -people of their masks. He shows us bits of the everyday life of human -beings as we see it, and his pictures of ordinary human beings, rooted -in certain circumstances, and engaged in certain avocations, reveal -to us further glimpses of the life that is going on inside these -people. The older dramatists, even when they deal exclusively with the -inner life of man, without the aid of any outside action, allow their -creations to take off their masks and lay bare their very inmost souls -to us. - -Tchekov’s characters never, of their own accord, take off their masks -for the benefit of the audience, but they retain them in exactly -the same degree as people retain them in real life; that is to say, -we sometimes guess by a word, a phrase, a gesture, the humming of a -tune, or the smelling of a flower, what is going on behind the mask; -at other times we see the mask momentarily torn off by an outbreak of -inward passion, but never by any pressure of an outside and artificial -machinery, never owing to the necessity of a situation, the demands of -a plot, or the exigencies of a problem; in fact, never by any forces -which are not those of life itself. In Tchekov’s plays, as in real -life, to use Meredith’s phrase, “Passions spin the plot”; he shows us -the delicate webs that reach from soul to soul across the trivial -incidents of every day. - -I will now analyse in detail two of the plays of Tchekov. The first is -a drama called _Chaika_. “Chaika” means “Sea-gull.” It was the first -serious play of Tchekov that was performed; and it is interesting to -note that when it was first produced at the Imperial Theatre at St. -Petersburg it met with no success, the reason being, no doubt, that the -actors did not quite enter into the spirit of the play. As soon as it -was played at Moscow it was triumphantly successful. - -The first act takes place in the park in the estate belonging to -Peter Nikolaievitch Sorin, the brother of a celebrated actress, -Irina Nikolaievna, whose stage name is Arkadina. Preparations have -been made in the park for some private theatricals. A small stage -has been erected. The play about to be represented has been written -by Constantine, the actress’s son, who is a young man, twenty-five -years old. The chief part is to be played by a young girl, Ina, the -daughter of a neighbouring landowner. These two young people are in -love with each other. Irina is a successful actress of the more or -less conventional type. She has talent and brains. “She sobs over a -book,” one of the characters says of her, “and knows all Russian poetry -by heart; she looks after the sick like an angel, but you must not -mention Eleanora Duse in her presence, you must praise her only, and -write about her and her wonderful acting in _La Dame aux Camélias_. In -the country she is bored, and we all become her enemies, we are all -guilty. She is superstitious and avaricious.” Constantine, her son, is -full of ideals with regard to the reform of the stage; he finds the old -forms conventional and tedious, he is longing to pour new wine into the -old skins, or rather to invent new skins. - -There is also staying in the house a well-known writer, about forty -years old, named Trigorin. “He is talented and writes well,” one of the -other characters says of him, “but after reading Tolstoy you cannot -read him at all.” The remaining characters are a middle-aged doctor, -named Dorn; the agent of the estate, a retired officer, his wife and -daughter, and a schoolmaster. The characters all assemble to witness -Constantine’s play; they sit down in front of the small extemporised -stage, which has a curtain but no back cloth, since this is provided -by nature in the shape of a distant lake enclosed by trees. The sun -has set, and it is twilight. Constantine begs his guests to lend their -attention. The curtain is raised, revealing a view of the lake with -the moon shining above the horizon, and reflected in the water. Ina is -discovered seated on a large rock dressed all in white. She begins to -speak a kind of prose poem, an address of the Spirit of the Universe -to the dead world on which there is supposed to be no longer any living -creature. - -Arkadina (the actress) presently interrupts the monologue by saying -softly to her neighbour, “This is decadent stuff.” The author, in a -tone of imploring reproach, says, “Mamma!” The monologue continues, the -Spirit of the World speaks of his obstinate struggle with the devil, -the origin of material force. There is a pause. Far off on the lake two -red dots appear. “Here,” says the Spirit of the World, “is my mighty -adversary, the devil. I see his terrible glowing eyes.” Arkadina once -more interrupts, and the following dialogue ensues: - - _Arkadina_: It smells of sulphur; is that necessary? - - _Constantine_: Yes. - - _Arkadina_ (_laughing_): Yes, that is an effect. - - _Constantine_: Mamma! - - _Ina_ (_continuing to recite_): He is lonely without man. - - _Paulin_ (_the wife of the agent_): (_To the doctor_): You have taken - off your hat. Put it on again, you will catch cold. - - _Arkadina_: The doctor has taken off his hat to the devil, the father - of the material universe. - - _Constantine_ (_losing his temper_): The play’s over. Enough! Curtain! - - _Arkadina_: Why are you angry? - - _Constantine_: Enough! Pull down the curtain! (_The curtain is let - down._) I am sorry I forgot, it is only certain chosen people that may - write plays and act. I infringed the monopoly, I ... (_He tries to say - something, but waves his arm and goes out._) - - _Arkadina_: What is the matter with you? - - _Sorin_ (_her brother_): My dear, you should be more gentle with the - _amour propre_ of the young. - - _Arkadina_: What did I say to him? - - _Sorin_: You offended him. - - _Arkadina_: He said himself it was a joke, and I took his play as a - joke. - - _Sorin_: All the same ... - - _Arkadina_: Now it appears he has written a masterpiece! A - masterpiece, if you please! So he arranged this play, and made a - smell of sulphur, not as a joke, but as a manifesto! He wished to - teach us how to write and how to act. One gets tired of this in - the long-run,--these insinuations against me, these everlasting - pin-pricks, they are enough to tire any one. He is a capricious and - conceited boy! - - _Sorin_: He wished to give you pleasure. - - _Arkadina_: Really? Then why did he not choose some ordinary play, and - why did he force us to listen to this decadent rubbish? If it is a - joke I do not mind listening to rubbish, but he has the pretension to - invent new forms, and tries to inaugurate a new era in art; and I do - not think the form is new, it is simply bad. - -Presently Ina appears; they compliment her on her performance. -Arkadina tells her she ought to go on to the stage, to which she -answers that that is her dream. She is introduced to Trigorin the -author: this makes her shy. She has read his works, she is overcome at -seeing the celebrity face to face. “Wasn’t it an odd play?” she asks -Trigorin. “I did not understand it,” he answers, “but I looked on with -pleasure--your acting was so sincere, and the scenery was beautiful.” -Ina says she must go home, and they all go into the house except the -doctor. Constantine appears again, and the doctor tells him that he -liked the play, and congratulates him. The young man is deeply touched. -He is in a state of great nervous excitement. As soon as he learns -that Ina has gone he says he must go after her at once. The doctor is -left alone. Masha, the daughter of the agent, enters and makes him a -confession: “I don’t love my father,” she says, “but I have confidence -in you. Help me.” “What is the matter?” he asks. “I am suffering,” she -answers, “and nobody knows my suffering. I love Constantine.” “How -nervous these people are,” says the doctor, “nerves, all nerves! and -what a quantity of love. Oh, enchanted lake! But what can I do for you, -my child, what, what?” and the curtain comes down. - -The second act is in the garden of the same estate. It is a hot noon. -Arkadina has decided to travel to Moscow. The agent comes and tells -her that all the workmen are busy harvesting, and that there are no -horses to take her to the station. She tells him to hire horses in the -village, or else she will walk. “In that case,” the agent replies, “I -give notice, and you can get a new agent.” She goes out in a passion. -Presently Constantine appears bearing a dead sea-gull; he lays it at -Ina’s feet. - - _Ina_: What does this mean? - - _Constantine_: I shot this sea-gull to-day to my shame. I throw it at - your feet. - - _Ina_: What is the matter with you? - - _Constantine_: I shall soon shoot myself in the same way. - - _Ina_: I do not recognise you. - - _Constantine_: Yes, some time after I have ceased to recognise you. - You have changed towards me, your look is cold, my presence makes you - uncomfortable. - - _Ina_: During these last days you have become irritable, and speak - in an unintelligible way, in symbols. I suppose this sea-gull is a - symbol. Forgive me, I am too simple to understand you. - - _Constantine_: It all began on that evening when my play was such - a failure. Women cannot forgive failure. I burnt it all to the - last page. Oh, if you only knew how unhappy I am! Your coldness is - terrifying, incredible! It is just as if I awoke, and suddenly saw - that this lake was dry, or had disappeared under the earth. You have - just said you were too simple to understand me. Oh, what is there to - understand? My play was a failure, you despise my work, you already - consider that I am a thing of no account, like so many others! How - well I understand that, how well I understand! It is as if there - were a nail in my brain; may it be cursed, together with the _amour - propre_ which is sucking my blood, sucking it like a snake! (_He sees - Trigorin, who enters reading a book._) Here comes the real genius. He - walks towards us like a Hamlet, and with a book too. “Words, words, - words.” This sun is not yet come to you, and you are already smiling, - your looks have melted in its rays. I will not be in your way. (_He - goes out rapidly._) - -There follows a conversation between Trigorin and Ina, during which she -says she would like to know what it feels like to be a famous author. -She talks of his interesting life. - - _Trigorin_: What is there so very wonderful about it? Like a - monomaniac who, for instance, is always thinking day and night of the - moon, I am pursued by one thought which I cannot get rid of, I must - write, I must write, I must ... I have scarcely finished a story, when - for some reason or another I must write a second, and then a third, - and then a fourth. I write uninterruptedly, I cannot do otherwise. - What is there so wonderful and splendid in this, I ask you? Oh, it is - a cruel life! Look, I get excited with you, and all the time I am - remembering that an unfinished story is waiting for me. I see a cloud - which is like a pianoforte, and I at once think that I must remember - to say somewhere in the story that there is a cloud like a pianoforte. - - _Ina_: But does not your inspiration and the process of creation give - you great and happy moments? - - _Trigorin_: Yes, when I write it is pleasant, and it is nice to - correct proofs; but as soon as the thing is published, I cannot bear - it, and I already see that it is not at all what I meant, that it is - a mistake, that I should not have written it at all, and I am vexed - and horribly depressed. The public reads it, and says: “Yes, pretty, - full of talent, very nice, but how different from Tolstoy!” or, “Yes, - a fine thing, but how far behind _Fathers and Sons_; Tourgeniev is - better.” And so, until I die, it will always be “pretty and full of - talent,” never anything more; and when I die my friends as they pass - my grave will say: “Here lies Trigorin, he was a good writer, but he - did not write as well as Tourgeniev.” - -Ina tells him that whatever he may appear to himself, to others he -appears great and wonderful. For the joy of being a writer or an -artist, she says, she would bear the hate of her friends, want, -disappointment; she would live in an attic and eat dry crusts. “I would -suffer from my own imperfections, but in return I should demand fame, -real noisy fame.” Here the voice of Arkadina is heard calling Trigorin. -He observes the sea-gull; she tells him that Constantine killed it. -Trigorin makes a note in his notebook. “What are you writing?” she -says. “An idea has occurred to me,” he answers, “an idea for a short -story: On the banks of a lake a young girl lives from her infancy -onwards. She loves the lake like a sea-gull, she is happy and free like -a sea-gull; but unexpectedly a man comes and sees her, and out of mere -idleness kills her, just like this sea-gull.” Here Arkadina again calls -out that they are not going to Moscow after all. This is the end of the -second act. - -At the third act, Arkadina is about to leave the country for Moscow. -Things have come to a crisis. Ina has fallen in love with the author, -and Constantine’s jealousy and grief have reached such a point that -he has tried to kill himself and failed, and now he has challenged -Trigorin to a duel. The latter has taken no notice of this, and is -about to leave for Moscow with Arkadina. Ina begs him before he goes -to say good-bye to her. Arkadina discusses with her brother her son’s -strange and violent behaviour. He points out that the youth’s position -is intolerable. He is a clever boy, full of talent, and he is obliged -to live in the country without any money, without a situation. He is -ashamed of this, and afraid of his idleness. In any case, he tells -his sister, she ought to give him some money, he has not even got an -overcoat; to which she answers that she has not got any money. She is -an artist, and needs every penny for her own expenses. Her brother -scoffs at this, and she gets annoyed. A scene follows between the -mother and the son, which begins by an exchange of loving and tender -words, and which finishes in a violent quarrel. The mother is putting -a new bandage on his head, on the place where he had shot himself. -“During the last few days,” says Constantine, “I have loved you as -tenderly as when I was a child; but why do you submit to the influence -of that man?”--meaning Trigorin. And out of this the quarrel arises. -Constantine says, “You wish me to consider him a genius. His works -make me sick.” To which his mother answers, “That is jealousy. People -who have no talent and who are pretentious, have nothing better to -do than to abuse those who have real talent.” Here Constantine flies -into a passion, tears the bandage off his head, and cries out, “You -people only admit and recognise what you do yourselves. You trample -and stifle everything else!” Then his rage dies out, he cries and asks -forgiveness, and says, “If you only knew, I have lost everything. She -no longer loves me; I can no longer write; all my hopes are dead!” They -are once more reconciled. Only Constantine begs that he may be allowed -to keep out of Trigorin’s sight. Trigorin comes to Arkadina, and -proposes that they should remain in the country. Arkadina says that she -knows why he wishes to remain; he is in love with Ina. He admits this, -and asks to be set free. - -Up to this point in the play there had not been a syllable to tell -us what were the relations between Arkadina and Trigorin, and yet -the spectator who sees this play guesses from the first that he is -her lover. She refuses to let him go, and by a somewhat histrionic -declaration of love cleverly mixed with flattery and common sense she -easily brings him round, and he is like wax in her fingers. He settles -to go. They leave for Moscow; but before they leave, Trigorin has a -short interview with Ina, in which she tells him that she has decided -to leave her home to go on the stage, and to follow him to Moscow. -Trigorin gives her his address in Moscow. Outside--the whole of this -act takes place in the dining-room--we hear the noise and bustle of -people going away. Arkadina is already in the carriage. Trigorin and -Ina say good-bye to each other, he gives her a long kiss. - -Between the third and fourth acts two years elapse. We are once more -in the home of Arkadina’s brother. Constantine has become a celebrated -writer. Ina has gone on the stage and proved a failure. She went to -Moscow; Trigorin loved her for a while, and then ceased to love her. -A child was born. He returned to his former love, and in his weakness, -played a double game on both sides. She is now in the town, but her -father will not receive her. Arkadina arrives with Trigorin. She has -been summoned from town because her brother is ill. Everything is going -on as it was two years ago. Arkadina, the agent, and the doctor sit -down to a game of Lotto before dinner. Arkadina tells of her triumphs -in the provincial theatres, of the ovations she received, of the -dresses she wore. The doctor asks her if she is proud of her son being -an author. “Just fancy,” she replies, “I have not yet read his books, I -have never had time!” They go in to supper. Constantine says he is not -hungry, and is left alone. Somebody knocks at the glass door opening -into the garden. Constantine opens it; it is Ina. Ina tells her story; -and now she has got an engagement in some small provincial town, and -is starting on the following day. Constantine declares vehemently that -he loves her as much as ever. He cursed her, he hated her, he tore up -her letters and photographs, but every moment he was forced to admit -to himself that he was bound to her for ever. He could never cease to -love her. He begs her either to remain, or to let him follow her. She -takes up her hat, she must go. She says she is a wandering sea-gull, -and that she is very tired. From the dining-room are heard the voices -of Arkadina and Trigorin. She listens, rushes to the door, and looks -through the keyhole. “He is here, too,” she says, “do not tell him -anything. I love him, I love him more than ever.” She goes out through -the garden. Constantine tears up all his MSS. and goes into the next -room. Arkadina and the others come out of the dining-room, and sit -down once more to the card-table to play Lotto. The agent brings to -Trigorin the stuffed sea-gull which Constantine had shot two years ago, -and which had been the starting-point of Trigorin’s love episode with -Ina. He has forgotten all about it; he does not even remember that the -sea-gull episode ever took place. A noise like a pistol shot is heard -outside. “What is that?” says Arkadina in fright. “It is nothing,” -replies the doctor, “one of my medicine bottles has probably burst.” -He goes into the next room, and returns half a minute later. “It was -as I thought,” he says, “my ether bottle has burst.” “It frightened -me,” says Arkadina, “it reminded me of how....” The doctor turns over -the leaves of the newspaper. He then says to Trigorin, “Two months ago -there was an article in this Review written from America. I wanted to -ask you....” He takes Trigorin aside, and then whispers to him, “Take -Irina Nikolaievna away as soon as possible. The fact of the matter is -that Constantine has shot himself.” - -Of all the plays of Tchekov, _Chaika_ is the one which most resembles -ordinary plays, or the plays of ordinary dramatists. It has, no doubt, -many of Tchekov’s special characteristics, but it does not show them -developed to their full extent. Besides which, the subject is more -dramatic than that of his other plays; there is a conflict in it--the -conflict between the son and the mother, between the older and the -younger generation, the older generation represented by Trigorin and -the actress, the younger generation by Constantine. The character of -the actress is drawn with great subtlety. Her real love for her son -is made just as plain as her absolute inability to appreciate his -talent and his cleverness. She is a mixture of kindness, common sense, -avarice, and vanity. Equally subtle is the character of the author, -with his utter want of wit; his absorption in the writing of short -stories; his fundamental weakness; his egoism, which prevents him -recognising the existence of any work but his own, but which has no -tinge of ill-nature or malice in it. When he returns in the last act, -he compliments Constantine on his success, and brings him a Review -in which there is a story by the young man. Constantine subsequently -notices that in the Review the only pages which are cut contain a -story by Trigorin himself. - -If _Chaika_ is the most dramatically effective of Tchekov’s plays, -the most characteristic is perhaps _The Cherry Garden_. It is notably -characteristic in the symbolical and historical sense, for it depicts -for us the causes and significance of the decline of the well-born, -landed gentry in Russia. - -A slightly Bohemian lady belonging to this class, Ranievskaia--I will -call her Madame Ranievskaia for the sake of convenience, since her -Christian name “Love” has no equivalent, as a name, in English--is -returning to her country estate with her brother Leonidas after an -absence of five years. She has spent this time abroad in Nice and -Paris. Her affairs and those of her brother are in a hopeless state. -They are heavily in debt. This country place has been the home of her -childhood, and it possesses a magnificent cherry orchard. It is in the -south of Russia. - -In the first act we see her return to the home of her childhood--she -and her brother, her daughter, seventeen years old, and her adopted -daughter. It is the month of May. The cherry orchard is in full -blossom; we see it through the windows of the old nursery, which is -the scene of the first act. The train arrives at dawn, before sunrise. -A neighbour is there to meet them, a rich merchant called Lopachin. -They arrive with their governess and their servant, and they have been -met at the station by another neighbouring landowner. And here we see -a thing I have never seen on the stage before: a rendering of the -exact atmosphere that hangs about such an event as (_a_) the arrival -of people from a journey, and (_b_) the return of a family to its home -from which it has long been absent. We see at a glance that Madame -Ranievskaia and her brother are in all practical matters like children. -They are hopelessly casual and vague. They take everything lightly and -carelessly, like birds; they are convinced that something will turn up -to extricate them from their difficulties. - -The merchant, who is a nice, plain, careful, practical, but rather -vulgar kind of person, is a millionaire, and, what is more, he is the -son of a peasant; he was born in the village, and his father was a -serf. He puts the practical situation very clearly before them. The -estate is hopelessly overloaded with debt, and unless these debts are -paid within six months, the estate will be sold by auction. But there -is, he points out, a solution to the matter. “As you already know,” he -says to them, “your cherry orchard will be sold to pay your debts. The -auction is fixed for the 22nd of August, but do not be alarmed, there -is a way out of the difficulty.... This is my plan. Your estate is -only 15 miles from the town, the railway is quite close, and if your -cherry orchard and the land by the river is cut up into villa holdings, -and let for villas, you will get at the least 25,000 roubles (£2500) a -year.” To which the brother replies, “What nonsense!” “You will get,” -the merchant repeats, “at the very least twenty-five roubles a year a -desiatin,”--a desiatin is about two acres and a half: much the same as -the French hectare,--“and by the autumn, if you make the announcement -now, you will not have a single particle of land left. In a word, I -congratulate you; you are saved. The site is splendid, only, of course, -it wants several improvements. For instance, all these old buildings -must be destroyed, and this house, which is no use at all, the old -orchard must be cut down.” - - _Madame Ranievskaia_: Cut down? My dear friend, forgive me, you do not - understand anything at all! If in the whole district there is anything - interesting, not to say remarkable, it is this orchard. - - _Lopachin_: The orchard is remarkable simply on account of its size. - - _Leonidas_: The orchard is mentioned in the Encyclopædia. - - _Lopachin_: If we do not think of a way out of the matter and come to - some plan, on the 22nd of August the cherry orchard and the whole - property will be sold by auction. Make up your minds; there is no - other way out, I promise you. - -But it is no good his saying anything. They merely reply, “What -nonsense!” They regard the matter of splitting up their old home into -villas as a sheer impossibility. And this is the whole subject of -the play. The merchant continues during the second act to insist on -the only practical solution of their difficulties, and they likewise -persist in saying this solution is madness, that it is absolutely -impossible. They cannot bring themselves to think of their old home -being turned into a collection of villas; they keep on saying that -something will turn up, an old aunt will die and leave them a legacy, -or something of that kind will happen. - -In the third act, the day of the auction has arrived, there is a dance -going on in the house. The impression is one of almost intolerable -human sadness, because we know that nothing has turned up, we know that -the whole estate will be sold. The whole picture is one of the ending -of a world. At the dance there are only the people in the village, the -stationmaster, the post-office officials, and so forth. The servant -they have brought from abroad gives notice. An old servant, who belongs -to the house, and is in the last stage of senile decay, wanders -about murmuring of old times and past brilliance. The guests dance -quadrilles through all the rooms. Leonidas has gone to the auction, and -Madame Ranievskaia sits waiting in hopeless suspense for the news of -the result. At last he comes back, pale and tired, and too depressed -to speak. The merchant also comes triumphantly into the room; he is -slightly intoxicated, and with a triumphant voice he announces that he -has bought the cherry garden. - -In the last act, we see them leave their house for ever, all the -furniture has been packed up, all the things which for them are so full -of little associations; the pictures are off the walls, the bare trees -of the cherry garden--for it is now autumn--are already being cut down, -and they are starting to begin a new life and to leave their old home -for ever. The old house, so charming, so full of old-world dignity and -simplicity, will be pulled down, and make place for neat, surburban -little villas to be inhabited by the new class which has arisen in -Russia. Formerly there were only gentlemen and peasants, now there is -the self-made man, who, being infinitely more practical, pushes out the -useless and unpractical gentleman to make way for himself. The pathos -and naturalness of this last act are extraordinary. Every incident that -we know so well in these moments of departure is noted and rendered. -The old servant, who belongs to the house, is supposed to be in the -hospital, and is not there to say good-bye to them; but when they -are all gone, he appears and closes the shutters, saying, “It is all -closed, they are gone, they forgot me; it doesn’t matter, I will sit -here. Leonidas Andreevitch probably forgot his cloak, and only went in -his light overcoat, I wasn’t there to see.” And he lies motionless in -the darkened, shuttered room, while from outside comes the sound of the -felling of the cherry orchard. - -Of course, it is quite impossible in a short analysis to give any idea -of the real nature of this play, which is a tissue of small details, -every one of which tells. Every character in it is living; Leonidas, -the brother, who makes foolish speeches and is constantly regretting -them afterwards; the plain and practical merchant; the good-natured -neighbour who borrows money and ultimately pays it back; the governess; -the clerk in the estate office; the servants, the young student who is -in love with the daughter,--we learn to know all these people as well -as we know our own friends and relations, and they reveal themselves -as people do in real life by means of a lifelike representation of the -conversation of human beings. The play is historical and symbolical, -because it shows us why the landed gentry in Russia has ceased to have -any importance, and how these amiable, unpractical, casual people must -necessarily go under, when they are faced with a strong energetic -class of rich, self-made men who are the sons of peasants. Technically -the play is extraordinarily interesting; there is no conflict of wills -in it, nothing which one could properly call action or drama, and yet -it never ceases to be interesting; and the reason of this is that the -conversation, the casual remarks of the characters, which seem to be -about nothing, and to be put there anyhow, have always a definite -purpose. Every casual remark serves to build up the architectonic -edifice which is the play. The structure is built, so to speak, in air; -it is a thing of atmosphere, but it is built nevertheless with extreme -care, and the result when interpreted, as it is interpreted at Moscow -by the actors of the artistic theatre, is a stage triumph. - -The three other most important plays of Tchekov are _Ivanoff_, _Three -Sisters_, and _Uncle Vania_,--the latter play has been well translated -into German. - -_Three Sisters_ is the most melancholy of all Tchekov’s plays. It -represents the intense monotony of provincial life, the grey life which -is suddenly relieved by a passing flash, and then rendered doubly -grey by the disappearance of that flash. The action takes place in a -provincial town. A regiment of artillery is in garrison there. One of -the three sisters, Masha, has married a schoolmaster; the two others, -Irina and Olga, are living in the house of their brother, who is a -budding professor. Their father is dead. Olga teaches in a provincial -school all day, and gives private lessons in the evening. Irina is -employed in the telegraph office. They have both only one dream and -longing, and that is to get away from the provincial corner in which -they live, and to settle in Moscow. They only stay on Masha’s account. -Masha’s husband is a kind and well-meaning, but excessively tedious -schoolmaster, who is continually reciting Latin tags. When Masha -married him she was only eighteen, and thought he was the cleverest man -in the world. She subsequently discovered that he was the kindest, but -not the cleverest man in the world. The only thing which relieves the -tedium of this provincial life is the garrison. - -When the play begins, we hear that a new commander has been appointed -to the battery, a man of forty called Vershinin. He is married, has -two children, but his wife is half crazy. The remaining officers in -the battery are Baron Tuzenbach, a lieutenant; Soleny, a major; and -two other lieutenants. Tuzenbach is in love with Irina, and wishes to -marry her; she is willing to marry him, but she is not in the least in -love with him, and tells him so. Masha falls passionately in love with -Vershinin. The major, Soleny, is jealous of Tuzenbach. Then suddenly -while these things are going on, the battery is transferred from the -town to the other end of Russia. On the morning it leaves the town, -Soleny challenges the Baron to a duel, and kills him. The play ends -with the three sisters being left alone. Vershinin says a passionate -good-bye to Masha, who is in floods of tears, and does not disguise her -grief from her husband. He, in the most pathetic way conceivable, tries -to console her, while the cheerful music of the band is heard gradually -getting fainter and fainter in the distance. Irina has been told of the -death of the Baron, and the sad thing about this is that she does not -really care. The three sisters are left to go on working, to continue -their humdrum existence in the little provincial town, to teach the -children in the school; the only thing which brought some relief to -their monotonous existence, and to one of the sisters the passion of -her life, is taken away from them, and the departure is made manifest -to them by the strains of the cheerful military band. - -I have never seen anything on the stage so poignantly melancholy as -this last scene. In this play, as well as in others, Tchekov, by the -way he presents you certain fragments of people’s lives, manages to -open a window on the whole of their life. In this play of _Three -Sisters_ we get four glimpses. A birthday party in the first act; -an ordinary evening in the second act; in the third act a night of -excitement owing to a fire in the town, and it is on this night that -the love affair of Vershinin and Masha culminates in a crisis; and in -the fourth act the departure of the regiment. Yet these four fragments -give us an insight, and open a window on to the whole life of these -people, and, in fact, on to the lives of many thousand people who have -led this life in Russia. - -Tchekov’s plays are as interesting to read as the work of any -first-rate novelist. But in reading them, it is impossible to guess -how effective they are on the stage, the delicate succession of -subtle shades and half-tones, of hints, of which they are composed, -the evocation of certain moods and feelings which it is impossible -to define,--all this one would think would disappear in the glare -of the footlights, but the result is exactly the reverse. Tchekov’s -plays are a thousand times more interesting to see on the stage -than they are to read. A thousand effects which the reader does not -suspect make themselves felt on the boards. The reason of this is that -Tchekov’s plays realise Goethe’s definition of what plays should be. -“Everything in a play,” Goethe said, “should be symbolical, and should -lead to something else.” By symbolical, of course, he meant morally -symbolical,--he did not mean that the play should be full of enigmatic -puzzles, but that every event in it should have a meaning and cast a -shadow larger than itself. - -The atmosphere of Tchekov’s plays is laden with gloom, but it is a -darkness of the last hour before the dawn begins. His note is not in -the least a note of despair: it is a note of invincible trust in the -coming day. The burden of his work is this--life is difficult, there is -nothing to be done but to work and to continue to work as cheerfully as -one can; and his triumph as a playwright is that for the first time he -has shown in prose,--for the great poets have done little else,--behind -the footlights, what it is that makes life difficult. Life is too -tremendous, too cheerful, and too sad a thing to be condensed into -an abstract problem of lines and alphabetical symbols; and those who -in writing for the stage attempt to do this, achieve a result which -is both artificial and tedious. Tchekov disregarded all theories and -all rules which people have hitherto laid down as the indispensable -qualities of stage writing; he put on the stage the things which -interested him because they were human and true; things great or -infinitesimally small; as great as love and as small as a discussion as -to what are the best _hors d’œuvres_; and they interest us for the same -reason. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[24] Two volumes of selections from his stories have been admirably -translated by Mr. Long. - -[25] It proved a success. - -[26] The dramatic critics of these newspapers are not the Mr. William -Archers, the Mr. Walkleys, not the Faguets or the Lemaîtres of Russia, -if any such exist. I have never come across anything of interest in -their articles; on the other hand, they are perhaps more representative -of public opinion. - -[27] Since this was written Mr. Shaw’s genius has had greater justice -done to it in Russia. His _Cæsar and Cleopatra_ has proved highly -successful. It was produced at the State Theatre of Moscow in the -autumn of 1909 and is still running as I write. Several intelligent -articles were written on it in the Moscow press. - -[28] Not to mention many modern French comedies, such as those of -Lemaître, Capus, etc. - - - _Printed by_ - MORRISON & GIBB LIMITED - _Edinburgh_ - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - -A few minor omissions and inconsistencies in punctuation have been -fixed. - -The chapter on Dostoievky was properly renumbered to VI instead of IV. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN -LITERATURE *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Landmarks in Russian literature</p> -<p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Maurice Baring</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: July 23, 2022 [eBook #68597]</p> -<p style='display:block; text-indent:0; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</p> - <p style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:0; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em; text-align:left'>Produced by: The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)</p> -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN LITERATURE ***</div> - - - - - - - - - - - - - -<h1>LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN LITERATURE</h1> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h3 class="nobreak" id="BY_THE_SAME_AUTHOR">BY THE SAME AUTHOR</h3> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"> -<ul class="index"> -<li class="ifrst"> <span class="smcap">With the Russians in Manchuria</span></li> -<li class="ifrst"> <span class="smcap">A Year in Russia</span></li> -<li class="ifrst"> <span class="smcap">Russian Essays and Stories</span></li> -</ul> - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p class="center xbig"> -LANDMARKS IN<br /> -RUSSIAN LITERATURE</p> -<p class="center p2"> -BY<br /> -<span class="big">MAURICE BARING</span></p> -<p class="center p4 small"> -SECOND EDITION</p> -<p class="center big p4"> -METHUEN & CO. LTD.<br /> -36 ESSEX STREET W.C.<br /> -LONDON<br /> -</p> - -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - - -<table class="autotable"> -<tr><td><i>First Published</i></td><td class="tdc"><i>March 10th 1910</i></td></tr> -<tr><td><i>Second Edition</i></td><td class="tdc"><i>1910</i></td></tr> -</table> - - -</div> - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> - -<p class="center p2"> -DEDICATED<br /> -<br /> -TO<br /> -<br /> -ARTHUR CHRISTOPHER BENSON<br /> -</p></div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="PREFACE">PREFACE</h2> -</div> - - -<p>The chapters in this book on Tolstoy and Tourgeniev, and those on -Chekov and Gogol have appeared before. That on Tolstoy and Tourgeniev -in <i>The Quarterly Review</i>; those on Chekov and Gogol in <i>The -New Quarterly</i>; my thanks are due to the Editors and Proprietors -concerned for their kindness in allowing me to reprint these chapters -here.</p> - -<p>The chapter on Russian Characteristics appeared in <i>St. George’s -Magazine</i>; the rest of the book is new. In writing it I consulted, -besides many books and articles in the Russian language, the following:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>The Works of Turgeniev. Translated by Constance Garnett. Fifteen vols. -London: Heinemann, 1906.</p> - -<p>The Complete Works of Count Tolstoy. Translated and edited by Leo -Wiener. Twenty-four vols. London: Dent, 1904-5.</p> - -<p>Le Roman Russe. By the Vicomte E. M. de Vogüé. Paris: Plon, 1897.</p> - -<p>Tolstoy as Man and Artist: with an Essay on Dostoievski. By Dimitri -Merejkowski. London: Constable, 1902.<a id="FNanchor_1" href="#Footnote_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</span></p> - -<p>Ivan Turgeniev: la Vie et l’Œuvre. By Émile Haumant. Paris: Armand -Colin, 1906.</p> - -<p>The Life of Tolstoy. First Fifty Years. By Aylmer Maude. London: -Constable, 1908.</p> - -<p>A Literary History of Russia. By Prof. A. Brückner. Edited by Ellis H. -Minns. Translated by H. Havelock. London and Leipsic: Fisher Unwin, -1908.</p> - -<p>Realities and Ideals of Russian Literature. By Prince Kropotkin.</p> - -<p>Russian Poetry and Progress. By Mrs. Newmarch. John Lane.</p> -</div> - -<p>By far the best estimate of Tolstoy’s work I have come across in -England in the last few years was a brilliant article published in the -Literary Supplement of the <i>Times</i>, I think in 1907, which, it is -to be hoped, will be republished.</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_1" href="#FNanchor_1" class="label">[1]</a> This is an abridgment of a larger book by the author.</p> - -</div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_ix">[Pg ix]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2> -</div> - -<table class="autotable"> -<tr> -<th class="tdr"> -CHAP. -</th> -<th> -</th> -<th class="tdr page"> -PAGE -</th> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I">I.</a> -</td> -<td class="tdl"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_I"><span class="smcap">Russian Characteristics</span></a> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_1">1</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II">II.</a> -</td> -<td class="tdl"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_II"><span class="smcap">Realism of Russian Literature</span></a> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_17">17</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III">III.</a> -</td> -<td class="tdl"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_III"><span class="smcap">Gogol and the Cheerfulness of the Russian People</span></a> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_39">39</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV.</a> -</td> -<td class="tdl"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_IV"><span class="smcap">Tolstoy and Tourgeniev</span></a> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_77">77</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V">V.</a> -</td> -<td class="tdl"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_V"><span class="smcap">The Place of Tourgeniev</span></a> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_116">116</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI.</a> -</td> -<td class="tdl"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VI"><span class="smcap">Dostoievsky</span></a> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_125">125</a> -</td> -</tr> -<tr> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII.</a> -</td> -<td class="tdl"> -<a href="#CHAPTER_VII"><span class="smcap">Plays of Anton Tchekov</span></a> -</td> -<td class="tdr page"> -<a href="#Page_263">263</a> -</td> -</tr> -</table> -<p> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xi">[Pg xi]</span></p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="INTRODUCTION">INTRODUCTION</h2> -</div> - - -<p>A book dealing with the literature of a foreign country appeals to -a double audience: the narrow circle of people who are intimately -familiar with that literature in its original tongue, and the large -public which is imperfectly acquainted even with translations of some -of its books. One of these audiences must necessarily be sacrificed. -For if you address yourself exclusively to the specialists, the larger -public will be but faintly interested; while if you have the larger -public in view alone, the narrower circle of those who are familiar -with the language will hear nothing from you which they do not already -know too well. In the case of a literature such as Russian, it is -obvious which audience has the claim to the greater consideration; -but while this book is addressed to those who are interested in but -not intimately familiar with Russian literature, I entertain the hope -that these essays may not prove entirely uninteresting to the closer -students of Russian. I have tried to make a compromise, and while -especially addressing myself to the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xii">[Pg xii]</span> majority, not to lose sight of the -minority altogether.</p> - -<p>The standpoint from which I approach Russian literature is less that -of the scholar than of an admiring and sympathetic friend. I have -tried to understand what the Russians themselves think about their own -literature, and in some manner to reflect their point of view as it -struck me either in their books or in conversation with many men and -women of many classes throughout several years.</p> - -<p>It has always seemed to me that there are two ways of writing about -a foreign literature: from the outside and from the inside. Take a -language like French, for instance, and the study of French poetry -in particular. Many English students of French poetry seem to me to -start from the point of view that although much French verse has many -excellent qualities, those qualities which are peculiarly French and -which the French themselves admire most are not worth admiring. Thus it -is that we have had many excellent critics telling us that although the -French poetry of the Renaissance is admirable and the French Romantic -epoch produced men of astounding genius, yet the poets of another sort, -whom the French set up on a permanent pinnacle as models of classic -perfection, such as Racine or La Fontaine, are not poets at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiii">[Pg xiii]</span> all. Some -critics have even gone further, and have maintained that admirable as -the French language is as an instrument for writing prose, it cannot -properly be used as a vehicle for writing poetry, and that French -poetry cannot be considered as being in the same category or on the -same footing as the verse of other nations. This is what I call the -outside view, and I am not only not persuaded of its truth, but I am -convinced that it is false, for two reasons:—</p> - -<p>First, because I cannot help thinking that the natives of a country -must be the best judges of their own tongue and of its literature, -and that foreign critics, however acute, may fail to appreciate -certain shades of meaning and sound which particularly appeal to the -native—for instance, I am sure it is more difficult for a foreigner -to appreciate the music of Milton’s diction than for an Englishman. -Secondly, since I learnt French at the same time as I learnt English, -and became familiar with French verse long before I was introduced to -the works of English poets, from my childhood up to the present day -French poetry has seemed to me to be just as beautiful as the poetry -of any other country, and the verse of Racine as musical as that of -Milton. I have, moreover, sometimes suspected that the severe sentences -I have seen passed on the French classics by English critics<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xiv">[Pg xiv]</span> were -perhaps due to imperfect familiarity with the language in question, and -that it even seemed possible that in condemning French verse they were -ignorant of the French laws of metre and scansion; such ignorance would -certainly prove a serious obstacle to proper appreciation.</p> - -<p>This digression is to make clear what I mean when I say that I have -tried to approach my subject from the inside; that is to say, I -have tried to put myself into the skin of a Russian, and to look at -the literature of Russia with his eyes, and then to explain to my -fellow-countrymen as clearly as possible what I have seen. I do not -say I have succeeded, but I have been greatly encouraged in the task -by having received appreciative thanks for my former efforts in this -direction from Russians who are, in my opinion, the only critics -competent to judge whether what I have written about their people and -their books hits the mark or not.</p> - -<p>One of the great difficulties in writing studies of various Russian -writers is the paradoxical thread that runs through the Russian -character. Russia is the land of paradoxes. The Russian character and -temperament are baffling, owing to the paradoxical elements which are -found united in them. It is for this reason that a series of studies -dealing with different aspects of the Russian character often have -the appearance of being a series of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xv">[Pg xv]</span> contradictory statements. I have -therefore in the first chapter of this book stated what I consider to -be the chief paradoxical elements of the Russian character. It is the -conflicting nature of these elements which accounts for the seemingly -contradictory qualities that we meet with in Russian literature. For -instance, there is a passive element in the Russian nature; there -is also something unbridled, a spirit which breaks all bounds of -self-control and runs riot; and there is also a stubborn element, a -tough obstinacy. The result is that at one moment one is pointing out -the matter-of-fact side of the Russian genius which clings to the earth -and abhors extravagance; and at another time one is discoursing on the -passion certain Russian novelists have for making their characters -wallow in abstract discussions; or, again, the cheerfulness of Gogol -has to be reconciled with the “inspissated gloom” of certain other -writers. All this makes it easy for a critic to bring the charge of -inconsistency against a student whose object is to provide certain -side-lights on certain striking examples, rather than a comprehensive -view of the whole, a task which is beyond the scope and powers of the -present writer.</p> - -<p>The student of Russian literature who wishes for a comprehensive view -of the whole of Russian literature and of its historic significance -and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xvi">[Pg xvi]</span> development, cannot do better than read Professor Brückner’s solid -and brilliant <i>Literary History of Russia</i>, which is admirably -translated into English.</p> - -<p>The object of my book is to interest the reader in Russia and Russian -literature, and to enable him to make up his mind as to whether he -wishes to seek after a more intimate knowledge of the subject.</p> - -<p>The authors whose work forms the subject of this book belong to the -period which began in the fifties and ended before the Russo-Japanese -War. The work of Tchekov represents the close of that epoch which -began with Gogol. After Tchekov the dawn of a new era was marked by -the startling advent of Maxim Gorky into Russian literature. Then came -the war, and with it a torrent of new writers, of new thoughts, of new -schools, of new theories of art. The most remarkable of these writers -is no doubt Andreev; but in order to discuss his work as well as that -of other writers who followed in his train, it would be necessary to -write another book. The student of Russian literature will notice that -I have omitted many Russian authors who are well known in the epoch -which I have chosen. I have omitted them for reasons which I have -already stated at the beginning of this Introduction, namely, that -there is not in England a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_xvii">[Pg xvii]</span> large enough circle of readers interested -in Russian literature to the extent of wishing to read about its less -well-known writers. I think the authors I have chosen are typical of -the generations they represent, and I hope that this book may have the -effect of leading readers from books <em>about</em> Russia and Russian -literature, to the country itself and its books, so that they may be -able to see with their own eyes and to correct the impressions which -they have received secondhand.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_xviii">[Pg xviii]</span></p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> - -<p class="center p2 xbig">LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN LITERATURE</p> -<hr class="r5" /> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_I">CHAPTER I<br /><span class="small">RUSSIAN CHARACTERISTICS</span></h2> -</div> - - - -<p>The difficulty in explaining anything to do with Russia to an English -public is that confusion is likely to arise owing to the terms -used being misunderstood. For instance, if one describes a Russian -officer, a Russian bureaucrat, a Russian public servant, or a Russian -schoolmaster, the reader involuntarily makes a mental comparison with -corresponding people in his own country, or in other European countries -where he has travelled. He necessarily fails to remember that there -are certain vital differences between Russians and people of other -countries, which affect the whole question, and which make the Russian -totally different from the corresponding Englishman. I wish before -approaching the work<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span> of Russian writers, to sketch a few of the main -characteristics which lie at the root of the Russian temperament by -which Russian literature is profoundly affected.</p> - -<p>The principal fact which has struck me with regard to the Russian -character, is a characteristic which was once summed up by Professor -Milioukov thus: “A Russian,” he said, “lacks the cement of hypocrisy.” -This cement, which plays so important a part in English public and -private life, is totally lacking in the Russian character. The Russian -character is plastic; the Russian can understand everything. You -can mould him any way you please. He is like wet clay, yielding and -malleable; he is passive; he bows his head and gives in before the -decrees of Fate and of Providence. At the same time, it would be a -mistake to say that this is altogether a sign of weakness. There is a -kind of toughness in the Russian character, an irreducible obstinacy -which makes for strength; otherwise the Russian Empire would not exist. -But where the want of the cement of hypocrisy is most noticeable, is -in the personal relations of Russians towards their fellow-creatures. -They do not in the least mind openly confessing things of which -people in other countries are ashamed; they do not mind admitting to -dishonesty, immorality, or cowardice, if they happen to feel that -they are saturated with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span> these defects; and they feel that their -fellow-creatures will not think the worse of them on this account, -because they know that their fellow-creatures will understand. The -astounding indulgence of the Russians arises out of this infinite -capacity for understanding.</p> - -<p>Another point: This absence of hypocrisy causes them to have an -impatience of cant and of convention. They will constantly say: “Why -not?” They will not recognise the necessity of drawing the line -somewhere, they will not accept as something binding the conventional -morality and the artificial rules of conduct which knit together our -society with a bond of steel. They may admit the expediency of social -laws, but they will never prate of the laws of any society being -divine; they will merely admit that they are convenient. Therefore, -if we go to the root of this matter, it comes to this: that the -Russians are more broadly and widely human than the people of other -European or Eastern countries, and, being more human, their capacity -of understanding is greater, for their extraordinary quickness of -apprehension comes from the heart rather than from the head. They are -the most humane and the most naturally kind of all the peoples of -Europe, or, to put it differently and perhaps more accurately, I should -say that there is more humanity and more kindness in Russia than in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span> -any other European country. This may startle the reader; he may think -of the lurid accounts in the newspapers of massacres, brutal treatment -of prisoners, and various things of this kind, and be inclined to -doubt my statement. As long as the world exists there will always be -a certain amount of cruelty in the conduct of human beings. My point -is this: that there is less in Russia than in other countries, but the -trouble up to the last two years has been that all excesses of any kind -on the part of officials were unchecked and uncontrolled. Therefore, if -any man who had any authority over any other man happened to be brutal, -his brutality had a far wider scope and far richer opportunities than -that of a corresponding overseer in another country.</p> - -<p>During the last three years Russia has been undergoing a violent -evolutionary process of change, what in other countries has been called -a revolution; but compared with similar phases in other countries, -and taking into consideration the size of the Russian Empire, and the -various nationalities which it contains, I maintain that the proportion -of excesses has been comparatively less. There are other factors in the -question which should also be borne in mind; firstly, that politically -Russia is about a century behind other European countries, and the -second is that Russians accept the fact that a man who does<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span> wrong -deserves punishment, with a kind of Oriental fatality, although the -pity which is inherent in them causes them to have a horror of capital -punishment.</p> - -<p>Now, let us take the first question, and just imagine for a moment what -the treatment of the poor would be in England were there no such thing -as a <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">habeas corpus</i>. Imagine what the position of the police -would be, if it held a position of arbitrary dominion; if nobody were -responsible; if any policeman could do what he chose, with no further -responsibility than that towards his superior officers. I do not -hesitate to say that were such a state of things to exist in England, -the position of the poor would be intolerable. Now, the position of -the poor in Russia is not intolerable; it is bad, owing to the evils -inseparable from poverty, drink, and the want of control enjoyed by -public servants. But it is not intolerable. Were it intolerable, the -whole of the Russian poor, who number ninety millions, would have long -ago risen to a man. They have not done so because their position is -not intolerable; and the reason of this is, that the evils to which -I have alluded are to a certain extent mitigated by the good-nature -and kindness inherent in the Russian temperament, instead of being -aggravated by an innate brutality and cruelty such as we meet with in -Latin and other races.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span></p> - -<p>Again, closely connected with any political system which is backward, -you will always find in any country a certain brutality in the matter -of punishments. Perhaps the cause of this—which is the reason why -torture was employed in the Middle Ages, and why it is employed -in China at the present day—is that only a small percentage of -the criminal classes are ever arrested; therefore when a criminal -is caught, his treatment is often unduly severe. If you read, for -instance, the sentences of corporal punishment, etc., which were -passed in England in the eighteenth century by county judges, or -of the punishments which were the rule in the Duke of Wellington’s -army in the Peninsular War, they will make your hair stand on end by -their incredible brutality; and England in the eighteenth century was -politically more advanced than Russia is at the present day.</p> - -<p>With regard to the second point, the attitude of Russians towards the -question of punishments displays a curious blend of opinion. While -they are more indulgent than any other people when certain vices and -defects are concerned, they are ruthless in enforcing and accepting the -necessity of punishment in the case of certain other criminal offences. -For instance, they are completely indulgent with regard to any moral -delinquencies, but unswervingly stern in certain other matters; and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span> -although they would often be inclined to let off a criminal, saying: -“Why should he be punished?” at the same time if he is punished, -and severely punished, they will accept the matter as a part of the -inevitable system that governs the world. On the other hand, they are -indulgent and tolerant where moral delinquencies which affect the man -himself and not the community are concerned; that is to say, they -will not mind how often or how violently a man gets drunk, because -the matter affects only himself; but they will bitterly resent a man -stealing horses, because thereby the whole community is affected.</p> - -<p>This attitude of mind is reflected in the Russian Code of Laws. The -Russian Penal Code, as M. Leroy-Beaulieu points out in his classic -book on Russia, is the most lenient in Europe. But the trouble is, -as the Liberal members of the Duma are constantly repeating, not -that the laws in Russia are bad, but that they are overridden by the -arbitrary conduct of individual officials. However, I do not wish -in this article to dwell on the causes of political discontent in -Russia, or on the evils of the bureaucratic régime. My object is -simply to point out certain characteristics of the Russian race, and -one of these characteristics is the leniency of the punishment laid -down by law for offences which in other countries are dealt with -drastically and severely;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span> murder, for instance. Capital punishment -was abolished in Russia as long ago as 1753 by the Empress Elizabeth; -corporal punishment subsisted only among the peasants, administered -by themselves (and not by a magistrate) according to their own local -administration, until it was abolished by the present Emperor in 1904. -So that until the revolutionary movement began, cases of capital -punishment, which only occurred in virtue of martial law, were rare, -and from 1866 to 1903 only 114 men suffered the penalty of death -throughout the whole of the Russian Empire, including the outlying -districts such as Caucasus, Transbaikalia, and Turkestan;<a id="FNanchor_2" href="#Footnote_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a> and even -at the present moment, when the country is still practically governed -by martial law, which was established in order to cope with the -revolutionary movement, you can in Russia kill a man and only receive -a few years’ imprisonment. It is the contrast of the lenient treatment -meted out to non-political prisoners with the severity exercised -towards political offenders which strikes the Russian politician -to-day, and it is of this contradiction that he so bitterly complains. -The fact, nevertheless, remains—in spite of the cases, however -numerous, which arose out of the extraordinary situation created by the -revolutionary movement, that the sentence of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span> death, meted out by the -judicial court, is in itself abhorrent to the Russian character.</p> - -<p>I will now give a few minor instances illustrating the indulgent -attitude of the Russian character towards certain moral delinquencies. -In a regiment which I came across in Manchuria during the war there -were two men; one was conscientious, brave to the verge of heroism, -self-sacrificing, punctilious in the performance of his duty, and -exacting in the demands he made on others as to the fulfilment of -theirs, untiringly energetic, competent in every way, but severe and -uncompromising. There was another man who was incurably lax in the -performance of his duty, not scrupulously honest where the Government -money was concerned, incompetent, but as kind as a human being can -be. I once heard a Russian doctor who was attached to this regiment -discussing and comparing the characters of the two men, and, after -weighing the pros and cons, he concluded that as a man the latter was -superior. Dishonesty in dealings with the public money seemed to him -an absolutely trifling fault. The unswerving performance of duty, and -all the great military qualities which he noted in the former, did not -seem to him to count in the balance against the great kindness of heart -possessed by the latter; and most of the officers agreed with him. It -never seemed to occur to these men that any one<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span> set of qualities, such -as efficiency, conscientiousness, or honesty, were more indispensable, -or in any way superior to any other set of qualities. They just noticed -the absence of them in others, or, as often happened, in themselves, -and thought they were amply compensated for by the presence of other -qualities, such as good-nature or amiability. And one notices in -Russian literature that authors such as Dostoievsky are not content -with showing us the redeeming points of a merely bad character, that -is to say, of a man fundamentally good, but who indulges in vice or in -crime; but they will take pleasure in showing you the redeeming points -of a character which at first sight appears to be radically mean and -utterly despicable. The aim of these authors seems to be to insist -that, just as nobody is indispensable, so nobody is superfluous. There -is no such thing as a superfluous man; and any man, however worthless, -miserable, despicable and mean he may seem to be, has just as much -right to be understood as any one else; and they show that, when he -is understood, he is not, taking him as a whole, any worse than his -fellow-creatures.</p> - -<p>Another characteristic which strikes one in Russian literature, and -still more in Russian life, especially if one has mingled in the lower -classes, is the very deeply rooted sense of pity which the Russians -possess. An Englishman who is lame, and whom I met in Russia, told -me that he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span> experienced there a treatment such as he had never -met before in any other country. The people, and especially the poor, -noticed his lameness, and, guessing what would be difficult for him to -do, came to his aid and helped him.</p> - -<p>In the streets of Moscow and St. Petersburg you rarely see beggars beg -in vain; and I have observed, travelling third class in trains and in -steamers, that when the poor came to beg bread for food from the poor, -they were never sent empty away. During the war I always found the -soldiers ready to give me food, however little they had for themselves, -in circumstances when they would have been quite justified in sending -me about my business as a pestilential nuisance and camp-follower. It -is impossible for a man to starve in Russia. He is perfectly certain -to find some one who will give him food for the asking. In Siberia -the peasants in the villages put bread on their window-sills, in -case any fugitive prisoners should be passing by. This fundamental -goodness of heart is the most important fact in the Russian nature; -it, and the expression of it in their literature, is the greatest -contribution which they have made to the history of the world. It is -probably the cause of all their weakness. For the defects indispensable -to such qualities are slackness, and the impossibility of conceiving -self-discipline to be a necessity, or<span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span> of recognising the conventional -rules and prejudices which make for solidity, and which are, as -Professor Milioukov said, as cement is to a building.</p> - -<p>The result of the absence of this hard and binding cement of prejudice -and discipline is that it is very difficult to attain a standard of -efficiency in matters where efficiency is indispensable. For instance, -in war. In a regiment with which I lived for a time during the war -there was a young officer who absolutely insisted on the maintenance of -a high standard of efficiency. He insisted on his orders being carried -out to the letter; his fellow-officers thought he was rather mad. One -day we had arrived in a village, and one of the younger officers had -ordered the horses to be put up in the yard facing the house in which -we were to live. Presently the officer to whom I have alluded arrived, -and ordered the horses to be taken out and put into a separate yard, -as he considered the arrangement which he found on his arrival to be -insanitary—which it was. He went away, and the younger officer did not -dream of carrying out his order.</p> - -<p>“What is the use?” he said, “the horses may just as well stay where -they are.”</p> - -<p>They considered this man to be indulging in an unnecessary pose, but -he was not, according to our ideas, in the least a formalist<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span> or a -lover of red tape; he merely insisted on what he considered to be -an irreducible minimum of discipline, the result being that he was -a square peg in a round hole. Moreover, when people committed, or -commit (and this is true in any department of public life in Russia), -a glaring offence, or leave undone an important part of their duty, it -is very rare that they are dealt with drastically; they are generally -threatened with punishment which ends in platonic censure. And this -fact, combined with a bureaucratic system, has dangerous results, for -the official often steps beyond the limits of his duty and takes upon -himself to commit lawless acts, and to exercise unlawful and arbitrary -functions, knowing perfectly well that he can do so with impunity, -and that he will not be punished. And one of the proofs that a new -era is now beginning in Russia is a series of phenomena never before -witnessed, and which have occurred not long ago—namely, the punishment -and dismissal of guilty officials, such as, for instance, that of -Gurko, who was dismissed from his post in the Government for having -been responsible for certain dishonest dealings in the matter of the -Famine Relief.</p> - -<p>Of course such indulgence, or rather the slackness resulting from it, -is not universal. Otherwise the whole country would go to pieces. And -yet so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span> far from going to pieces, even through a revolution things -jogged on somehow or other. For against every square yard of slackness -there is generally a square inch of exceptional capacity, and a square -foot of dogged efficiency, and thus the balance is restored. The -incompetency of a Stoessel, and a host of others, is counterbalanced -not only by the brilliant energy of a Kondratenko, but by the hard work -of thousands of unknown men. And this is true throughout all public -life in Russia. At the same time, the happy-go-lucky element, the -feeling of “What does it matter?” of what they call <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">nichevo</i>, -is the preponderating quality; and it is only so far counterbalanced -by sterner qualities as to make the machine go on. This accounts also -for the apparent weakness of the revolutionary element in Russia. The -ranks of these people, which at one moment appear to be so formidable, -at the next moment seem to have scattered to the four winds of heaven. -They appear to give in and to accept, to submit and be resigned to -fate. But there is nevertheless an undying passive resistance; and at -the bottom of the Russian character, whether that character be employed -in revolutionary or in other channels, there is an obstinate grit of -resistance. Again, one is met in Russian history, from the days of -Peter the Great down to the present day, with isolated instances of -exceptional energy and of powers of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> organisation, such as Souvorov, -Skobelieff, Kondratenko, Kilkov, and, to take a less known instance, -Kroustalieff (who played a leading part in organising the working -classes during the great strike in 1905).</p> - -<p>The way in which troops were poured into Manchuria during the war -across a single line, which was due to the brilliant organisation of -Prince Kilkov, is in itself a signal instance of organisation and -energy in the face of great material difficulties. The station at -Liaoyang was during the war under the command of a man whose name -I have forgotten, but who showed the same qualities of energy and -resource. On the day Liaoyang was evacuated, and while the station was -being shelled, he managed to get off every train safely, and to leave -nothing behind. There were many such instances which are at present -little known, to be set against the incompetence and mismanagement of -which one hears so much.</p> - -<p>It is perhaps this blend of opposite qualities, this mixture of -softness and slackness and happy-go-lucky <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">insouciance</i> (all of -which qualities make a thing as pliant as putty and as yielding as -dough) with infinite capacity for taking pains, and the inspiring -energy and undefeated patience in the face of seemingly insuperable -obstacles, which makes the Russian character difficult to understand. -You have, on the one hand, the man<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span> who bows his head before an -obstacle and says that it does not after all matter very much; and, -on the other hand, the man who with a few straws succeeds in making -a great palace of bricks. Peter the Great was just such a man, and -Souvorov and Kondratenko were the same in kind, although less in -degree. And again, you have the third type, the man who, though -utterly defeated, and apparently completely submissive, persists in -resisting—the passive resister whose obstinacy is unlimited, and -whose influence in matters such as the revolutionary propaganda is -incalculable.</p> - -<p>It has been constantly said that Russia is the land of paradoxes, and -there is perhaps no greater paradox than the mixture in the Russian -character of obstinacy and weakness, and the fact that the Russian is -sometimes inclined to throw up the sponge instantly, while at others -he becomes himself a tough sponge, which, although pulled this way and -that, is never pulled to pieces. He is undefeated and indefatigable in -spite of enormous odds, and thus we are confronted in Russian history -with men as energetic as Peter the Great, and as slack as Alexeieff the -Viceroy.</p> - -<p>People talk of the waste of Providence in never making a ruby without -a flaw, but is it not rather the result of an admirable economy, which -never deals out a portion of coffee without a certain admixture of -chicory?</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_2" href="#FNanchor_2" class="label">[2]</a> See Tagantseff, <i>Russian Criminal Law</i>.</p> - -</div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_II">CHAPTER II<br /><span class="small">REALISM OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE</span></h2> -</div> - - -<p>The moment a writer nowadays mentions the word “realism” he risks the -danger of being told that he is a disciple of a particular school, -and that he is bent on propagating a peculiar and exclusive theory of -art. If, however, Russian literature is to be discussed at all, the -word “realism” cannot be avoided. So it will be as well to explain -immediately and clearly what I mean when I assert that the main -feature of both Russian prose and Russian verse is its closeness to -nature, its love of reality, which for want of a better word one can -only call realism. When the word “realism” is employed with regard to -literature, it gives rise to two quite separate misunderstandings: -this is unavoidable, because the word has been used to denote special -schools and theories of art which have made a great deal of noise both -in France and England and elsewhere.</p> - -<p>The first misunderstanding arises from the use of the word by a certain -French school of novelists who aimed at writing scientific novels<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span> -in which the reader should be given slices of raw life; and these -novelists strove by an accumulation of detail to produce the effect of -absolute reality. The best known writers of this French school did not -succeed in doing this, although they achieved striking results of a -different character. For instance, Emile Zola was entirely successful -when he wrote prose epics on subjects such as life in a mine, life -in a huge shop, or life during a great war; that is to say, he was -poetically successful when he painted with a broad brush and set great -crowds in motion. He produced matchless panoramas, but the effect of -them at their best was a poetic, romantic effect. When he tried to be -realistic, and scientifically realistic, when he endeavoured to say -everything by piling detail on detail, he merely succeeded in being -tedious and disgusting. And so far from telling the whole truth, he -produced an effect of distorted exaggeration such as one receives from -certain kinds of magnifying and distorting mirrors.</p> - -<p>The second misunderstanding with regard to the word “realism” is this. -Certain people think that if you say an author strives to attain an -effect of truth and reality in his writings, you must necessarily mean -that he is without either the wish or the power to select, and that his -work is therefore chaotic. Not long ago, in a book of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span> short sketches, -I included a very short and inadequate paper on certain aspects of the -Russian stage; and in mentioning Tchekov, the Russian dramatist, I made -the following statement: “The Russian stage simply aims at one thing: -to depict everyday life, not exclusively the brutality of everyday -life, nor the tremendous catastrophes befalling human beings, nor to -devise intricate problems and far-fetched cases of conscience in which -human beings might possibly be entangled. It simply aims at presenting -glimpses of human beings as they really are, and by means of such -glimpses it opens out avenues and vistas into their lives.” I added -further that I considered such plays would be successful in any country.</p> - -<p>A reviewer, commenting on this in an interesting article, said that -these remarks revealed the depth of my error with regard to realism. -“As if the making of such plays,” wrote the reviewer, “were not the -perpetual aim of dramatists! But a dramatist would be putting chaos and -not real life on the stage if he presented imitations of unselected -people doing unselected things at unselected moments. The idea which -binds the drama together, an idea derived by reason from experience of -life at large, is the most real and lifelike part in it, if the drama -is a good one.”</p> - -<p>Now I am as well aware as this reviewer, or as any one else, that it is -the perpetual aim of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span> dramatists to make such plays. But it is an aim -which they often fail to achieve. For instance, we have had, during the -last thirty years in England and France, many successful and striking -plays in which the behaviour of the characters although effective from -a theatrical point of view, is totally unlike the behaviour of men -and women in real life. Again, when I wrote of the Russian stage, I -never for a moment suggested that the Russian dramatist did, or that -any dramatist should, present imitations of unselected people doing -unselected things at unselected moments. As my sketch was a short one, -I was not able to go into the question in full detail, but I should -have thought that if one said that a play was true to life, and at the -same time theatrically and dramatically successful, that is to say, -interesting to a large audience, an ordinary reader would have taken -for granted (as many of my readers did take for granted) that in the -work of such dramatists there must necessarily have been selection.</p> - -<p>Later on in this book I shall deal at some length with the plays -of Anton Tchekov, and in discussing that writer, I hope to make it -clear that his work, so far from presenting imitations of unselected -people doing unselected things at unselected moments, are imitations -of selected but real people, doing selected but probable things<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> at -selected but interesting moments. But the difference between Tchekov -and most English and French dramatists (save those of the quite modern -school) is, that the moments which Tchekov selects appear at first -sight to be trivial. His genius consists in the power of revealing the -dramatic significance of the seemingly trivial. It stands to reason, -as I shall try to point out later on, that the more realistic your -play, the more it is true to life; the less obvious action there is -in it, the greater must be the skill of the dramatist; the surer his -art, the more certain his power of construction, the nicer his power of -selection.</p> - -<p><abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Max Beerbohm once pointed this out by an apt illustration. “The -dramatist,” he said, “who deals in heroes, villains, buffoons, queer -people who are either doing or suffering either tremendous or funny -things, has a very valuable advantage over the playwright who deals -merely in humdrum you and me. The dramatist has his material as a -springboard. The adramatist must leap as best he can on the hard high -road, the adramatist must be very much an athlete.”</p> - -<p>That is just it: many of the modern (and ancient) Russian playwriters -are adramatists. But they are extremely athletic; and so far from their -work being chaotic, they sometimes give evidence, as in the case of -Tchekov, of a supreme<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span> mastery over the construction and architectonics -of drama, as well as of an unerring instinct for what will be telling -behind footlights, although at first sight their choice does not seem -to be obviously dramatic.</p> - -<p>Therefore, everything I have said so far can be summed up in two -statements: Firstly, that Russian literature, because it deals with -realism, has nothing in common with the work of certain French -“Naturalists,” by whose work the word “realism” has achieved so wide -a notoriety; secondly, Russian literature, although it is realistic, -is not necessarily chaotic, and contains many supreme achievements -in the art of selection. But I wish to discuss the peculiar quality -of Russian realism, because it appears to me that it is this quality -which differentiates Russian literature from the literature of other -countries.</p> - -<p>I have not dealt in this book with Russian poets, firstly, because the -number of readers who are familiar with Russian poetry in its original -tongue is limited; and, secondly, because it appears to me impossible -to discuss Russian poetry, if one is forced to deal in translations, -since no translation, however good, can give the reader an idea either -of the music, the atmosphere, or the charm of the original. But it -is in Russian poetry that the quality of Russian realism is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span> perhaps -most clearly made manifest. Any reader familiar with German literature -will, I think, agree that if one compares French or English poetry -with German poetry, and French and English Romanticism with German -Romanticism, one is conscious, when one approaches the work of the -Germans, of entering into a more sober and more quiet dominion; one -leaves behind one the exuberance of England: “the purple patches” of -a Shakespeare, the glowing richness of a Keats, the soaring rainbow -fancies of a Shelley, the wizard horizons of a Coleridge. One also -leaves behind one the splendid sword-play and gleaming decision of the -French: the clarions of Corneille, the harps and flutes of Racine, the -great many-piped organ of Victor Hugo, the stormy pageants of Musset, -the gorgeous lyricism of Flaubert, the jewelled dreams of Gautier, and -all the colour and the pomp of the Parnassians. One leaves all these -things behind, and one steps into a world of quiet skies, rustling -leaves, peaceful meadows, and calm woods, where the birds twitter -cheerfully and are answered by the plaintive notes of pipe or reed, or -interrupted by the homely melody, sometimes cheerful and sometimes sad, -of the wandering fiddler.</p> - -<p>In this country, it is true, we have visions and vistas of distant -hills and great brooding waters, of starlit nights and magical -twilights; in this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span> country, it is also true that we hear the echoes -of magic horns, the footfall of the fairies, the tinkling hammers of -the sedulous Kobolds, and the champing and the neighing of the steeds -of Chivalry. But there is nothing wildly fantastic, nor portentously -exuberant, nor gorgeously dazzling; nothing tempestuous, unbridled, -or extreme. When the Germans have wished to express such things, they -have done so in their music; they certainly have not done so in their -poetry. What they have done in their poetry, and what they have done -better than any one else, is to express in the simplest of all words -the simplest of all thoughts and feelings. They have spoken of first -love, of spring and the flowers, the smiles and tears of children, -the dreams of youth and the musings of old age—with a simplicity, a -homeliness no writers of any other country have ever excelled. And when -they deal with the supernatural, with ghosts, fairies, legends, deeds -of prowess or phantom lovers, there is a quaint homeliness about the -recital of such things, as though they were being told by the fireside -in a cottage, or being sung on the village green to the accompaniment -of a hurdy-gurdy. To many Germans the phantasy of a Shelley or of a -Victor Hugo is essentially alien and unpalatable. They feel as though -they were listening to men who are talking too loud and too wildly, -and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span> they merely wish to get away or to stop their ears. Again, poets -like Keats or Gautier often produce on them the impression that they -are listening to sensuous and meaningless echoes.</p> - -<p>Now Russian poetry is a step farther on in this same direction. The -reader who enters the kingdom of Russian poetry, after having visited -those of France and England, experiences what he feels in entering the -German region, but still more so. The region of Russian poetry is still -more earthy. Even the mysticism of certain German Romantic writers is -alien to it. The German poetic country is quiet and sober, it is true; -but in its German forests you hear, as I have said, the noise of those -hoofs which are bearing riders to the unknown country. Also you have in -German literature, allegory and pantheistic dreams which are foreign to -the Russian poetic temperament, and therefore unreflected in Russian -poetry.</p> - -<p>The Russian poetical temperament, and, consequently, Russian poetry, -does not only closely cling to the solid earth, but it is based on -and saturated with sound common sense, with a curious matter-of-fact -quality. And this common sense with which the greatest Russian poet, -Pushkin, is so thoroughly impregnated, is as foreign to German -<i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Schwärmerei</i> as it is to French rhetoric,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span> or the imaginative -exuberance of England. In Russian poetry of the early part of the -nineteenth century, in spite of the enthusiasm kindled in certain -Russian poets by the romantic scenery of the Caucasus, there is very -little feeling for nature. Nature, in the poetry of Pushkin, is more or -less conventional: almost the only flower mentioned is the rose, almost -the only bird the nightingale. And although certain Russian poets -adopted the paraphernalia and the machinery of Romanticism (largely -owing to the influence of Byron), their true nature, their fundamental -sense, keeps on breaking out. Moreover, there is an element in Russian -Romanticism of passive obedience, of submission to authority, which -arises partly from the passive quality in all Russians, and partly from -the atmosphere of the age and the political régime of the beginning of -the nineteenth century. Thus it is that no Russian Romantic poet would -have ever tried to reach the dim pinnacles of Shelley’s speculative -cities, and no Russian Romantic poet would have uttered a wild cry of -revolt such as Musset’s “Rolla.” But what the Russian poets did do, -and what they did in a manner which gives them an unique place in the -history of the world’s literature, was to extract poetry from the daily -life they saw round them, and to express it in forms of incomparable -beauty. Russian poetry, like the Russian nature,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span> is plastic. -Plasticity, adaptability, comprehensiveness, are the great qualities -of Pushkin. His verse is “simple, sensuous and impassioned”; there is -nothing indistinct about it, no vague outline and no blurred detail; it -is perfectly balanced, and it is this sense of balance and proportion -blent with a rooted common sense, which reminds the reader when he -reads Pushkin of Greek art, and gives one the impression that the poet -is a classic, however much he may have employed the stock-in-trade of -Romanticism.</p> - -<p>Meredith says somewhere that the poetry of mortals is their daily -prose. It is precisely this kind of poetry, the poetry arising -from the incidents of everyday life, which the Russian poets have -been successful in transmuting into verse. There is a quality of -matter-of-factness in Russian poetry which is unique; the same quality -exists in Russian folklore and fairy tales; even Russian ghosts, and -certainly the Russian devil, have an element of matter-of-factness -about them; and the most Romantic of all Russian poets, Lermontov, has -certain qualities which remind one more of Thackeray than of Byron or -Shelley, who undoubtedly influenced him.</p> - -<p>I will quote as an example of this one of his most famous poems. It is -called “The Testament,”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span> and it is the utterance of a man who has been -mortally wounded in battle.</p> - -<p class="poetry"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“I want to be alone with you,<a id="FNanchor_3" href="#Footnote_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a></span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">A moment quite alone.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The minutes left to me are few,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">They say I’ll soon be gone.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And you’ll be going home on leave,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Then tell ... but why? I do believe</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">There’s not a soul, who’ll greatly care</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To hear about me over there.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And yet if some one asks you, well,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">Let us suppose they do—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A bullet hit me here, you’ll tell,—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">The chest,—and it went through.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And say I died and for the Tsar,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And say what fools the doctors are;—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And that I shook you by the hand,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And thought about my native land.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">My father and my mother, there!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">They may be dead by now;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To tell the truth, I wouldn’t care</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">To grieve them anyhow.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">If one of them is living, say</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I’m bad at writing home, and they</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Have sent us to the front, you see,—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And that they needn’t wait for me.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They’ve got a neighbour, as you know,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">And you remember I</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And she.... How very long ago</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 2.5em;">It is we said good-bye!</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">She won’t ask after me, nor care,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But tell her ev’rything, don’t spare</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Her empty heart; and let her cry;—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To her it doesn’t signify.”</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span></p> -<p>The words of this poem are the words of familiar conversation; they are -exactly what the soldier would say in such circumstances. There is not -a single literary or poetical expression used. And yet the effect in -the original is one of poignant poetical feeling and consummate poetic -art. I know of no other language where the thing is possible; because -if you translate the Russian by the true literary equivalents, you -would have to say: “I would like a word alone with you, old fellow,” or -“old chap,”<a id="FNanchor_4" href="#Footnote_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a> or something of that kind; and I know of no English poet -who has ever been able to deal successfully (in poetry) with the speech -of everyday life without the help of slang or dialect. What is needed -for this are the Russian temperament and the Russian language.</p> - -<p>I will give another instance of what I mean. There is a Russian poet -called Krilov, who wrote fables such as those of La Fontaine, based -for the greater part on those of Æsop. He wrote a version of what is -perhaps La Fontaine’s masterpiece, “Les Deux Pigeons,” which begins -thus:</p> - -<p class="poetry"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Two pigeons, like two brothers, lived together.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They shared their all in fair and wintry weather.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the one was the other would be near,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And every joy they shared and every tear.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">They noticed not Time’s flight. Sadness they knew;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">But weary of each other never grew.”</span><br /> -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p> -<p>This last line, translated literally, runs: “They were sometimes -sad, they were never bored.” It is one of the most poetical in -the whole range of Russian literature; and yet how absolutely -untranslatable!—not only into English, but into any other language. -How can one convey the word “boring” so that it shall be poetical, in -English or in French? In Russian one can, simply from the fact that the -word which means boring, “skouchno,” is just as fit for poetic use as -the word “groustno,” which means sad. And this proves that it is easier -for Russians to make poetry out of the language of everyday than it is -for Englishmen.</p> - -<p>The matter-of-fact quality of the Russian poetical temperament—its -dislike of exaggeration and extravagance—is likewise clearly visible -in the manner in which Russian poets write of nature. I have already -said that the poets of the early part of the nineteenth century reveal -(compared with their European contemporaries) only a mild sentiment for -the humbler aspects of nature; but let us take a poet of a later epoch, -Alexis Tolstoy, who wrote in the fifties, and who may not unfairly be -called a Russian Tennyson. In the work of Tolstoy the love of nature -reveals itself on almost every page. His work brings before our eyes -the landscape of the South of Russia, and expresses the charm and the -quality of that country in the same way as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> Tennyson’s “In Memoriam” -evokes for us the sight of England. Yet if one compares the two, the -work of the Russian poet is nearer to the earth, familiar and simple -in a fashion which is beyond the reach of other languages. Here, for -instance, is a rough translation of one of Alexis Tolstoy’s poems:</p> - -<p class="poetry"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Through the slush and the ruts of the road,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the side of the dam of the stream;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Where the wet fishing nets are spread,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The carriage jogs on, and I muse.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I muse and I look at the road,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At the damp and the dull grey sky,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">At the shelving bank of the lake,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the far-off smoke of the villages.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">By the dam, with a cheerless face,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is walking a tattered old Jew.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From the lake, with a splashing of foam,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The waters rush through the weir.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">A little boy plays on a pipe,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">He has made it out of a reed.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The startled wild-ducks have flown,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And call as they sweep from the lake.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Near the old crumbling mill</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Labourers sit on the grass.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">An old worn horse in a cart,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Is lazily dragging some sacks.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And I know it all, oh! so well,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Although I have never been here;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">The roof of that house over there,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And that boy, and the wood, and the weir,</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the mournful voice of the mill,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the crumbling barn in the field—</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">I have been here and seen it before,</span><br /> -<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span><span style="margin-left: 1em;">And forgotten it all long ago.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">This very same horse plodded on,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">It was dragging the very same sacks;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And under the mouldering mill</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Labourers sat on the grass.</span><br /> -<br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the Jew, with his beard, walked by,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And the weir made just such a noise.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">All this has happened before,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Only, I cannot tell when.”</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>I have said that Russian fairy tales and folk stories are full of the -same spirit of matter-of-factness. And so essential do I consider this -factor to be, so indispensable do I consider the comprehension of it by -the would-be student of Russian literature, that I will quote a short -folk-story at length, which reveals this quality in its essence. The -reader will only have to compare the following tale in his mind with a -French, English, or German fairy tale to see what I mean.</p> - - -<h3><span class="smcap">The Fool</span></h3> -<div class="blockquot"> -<p>Once upon a time in a certain kingdom there lived an old man, and he -had three sons. Two of them were clever, the third was a fool. The -father died, and the sons drew lots for his property: the clever sons -won every kind of useful thing; the fool only received an old ox, and -that was a lean and bony one.</p> - -<p>The time of the fair came, and the clever brothers made themselves -ready to go and do<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span> a deal. The fool saw them doing this, and said:</p> - -<p>“I also, brothers, shall take my ox to the market.”</p> - -<p>And he led his ox by a rope tied to its horn, towards the town. On the -way to the town he went through a wood, and in the wood there stood an -old dried-up birch tree. The wind blew and the birch tree groaned.</p> - -<p>“Why does the birch tree groan?” thought the fool. “Does it perhaps -wish to bargain for my ox? Now tell me, birch tree, if you wish to buy. -If that is so, buy. The price of the ox is twenty roubles: I cannot -take less. Show your money.”</p> - -<p>But the birch tree answered nothing at all, and only groaned, and the -fool was astonished that the birch tree wished to receive the ox on -credit.</p> - -<p>“If that is so, I will wait till to-morrow,” said the fool.</p> - -<p>He tied the ox to the birch tree, said good-bye to it, and went home.</p> - -<p>The clever brothers came to him and began to question him.</p> - -<p>“Well, fool,” they said, “have you sold your ox?”</p> - -<p>“I have sold it.”</p> - -<p>“Did you sell it dear?”</p> - -<p>“I sold it for twenty roubles.”</p> - -<p>“And where is the money?”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span></p> - -<p>“I have not yet got the money. I have been told I shall receive it -to-morrow.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you simpleton!” said the clever brothers.</p> - -<p>On the next day, early in the morning, the fool got up, made himself -ready, and went to the birch tree for his money. He arrived at the -wood; the birch tree was there, swaying in the wind, but the ox was not -there any more,—the wolves had eaten him in the night.</p> - -<p>“Now, countryman,” said the fool to the birch tree, “pay me the money. -You promised you would pay it to-day.”</p> - -<p>The wind blew, the birch tree groaned, and the fool said:</p> - -<p>“Well, you are an untrustworthy fellow! Yesterday you said, ‘I will pay -the money to-morrow,’ and to-day you are trying to get out of it. If -this is so I will wait yet another day, but after that I shall wait no -longer, for I shall need the money myself.”</p> - -<p>The fool went home, and his clever brothers again asked him: “Well, -have you received your money?”</p> - -<p>“No, brothers,” he answered, “I shall have to wait still another little -day.”</p> - -<p>“Whom did you sell it to?”</p> - -<p>“A dried old birch tree in the wood.”</p> - -<p>“See what a fool!” said the brothers.</p> - -<p>On the third day the fool took an axe and set<span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span> out for the wood. He -arrived and demanded the money.</p> - -<p>The birch tree groaned and groaned.</p> - -<p>“No, countryman,” said the fool, “if you always put off everything till -the morrow, I shall never get anything from you at all. I do not like -joking, and I shall settle matters with you at once and for all.”</p> - -<p>He took the axe and struck the tree, and the chips flew on all sides.</p> - -<p>Now in the tree was a hollow, and in this hollow some robbers had -hidden a bag of gold. The tree was split into two parts, and the fool -saw a heap of red gold; and he gathered the gold together in a heap and -took some of it home and showed it to his brothers.</p> - -<p>And his brothers said to him:</p> - -<p>“Where did you get such a lot of money, fool?”</p> - -<p>“A countryman of mine gave it to me for my ox,” he said, “and there is -still a great deal left. I could not bring half of it home. Let us go, -brothers, and get the rest of it.”</p> - -<p>They went into the wood and found the money, and brought it home.</p> - -<p>“Now look you, fool,” said the clever brothers, “do not tell any one -that we have so much money.”</p> - -<p>“Of course not,” said the fool, “I will not tell any one, I promise -you.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span></p> - -<p>But soon after this they met a deacon.</p> - -<p>“What are you bringing from the wood, children?” said the deacon.</p> - -<p>“Mushrooms,” said the clever brothers.</p> - -<p>But the fool interrupted and said: “They are not telling the truth—we -are bringing gold. Look at it if you will.”</p> - -<p>The deacon gasped with astonishment, fell upon the gold, and took as -much as he could and stuffed his pockets full of it.</p> - -<p>But the fool was annoyed at this, and struck him with an axe and beat -him till he was dead.</p> - -<p>“Oh fool, what have you done?” said his brothers. “You will be ruined, -and ruin us also. What shall we do now with this dead body?”</p> - -<p>They thought and they thought, and then they took it to an empty cellar -and threw it into the cellar.</p> - -<p>Late in the evening the eldest brother said to the second: “This is a -bad business. As soon as they miss the deacon the fool is certain to -tell them all about it. Let us kill a goat and hide it in the cellar -and put the dead body in some other place.”</p> - -<p>They waited until the night was dark; then they killed a goat, threw it -into the cellar, and took the body of the deacon to another place and -buried it in the earth.</p> - -<p>A few days passed; people looked for the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span> deacon everywhere, and asked -everybody they could about him. And the fool said to them:</p> - -<p>“What do you want of him? I killed him with an axe, and my brothers -threw the body into the cellar.”</p> - -<p>They at once seized the fool and said to him:</p> - -<p>“Take us and show us.”</p> - -<p>The fool climbed into the cellar, took out the head of the goat, and -said:</p> - -<p>“Was your deacon black?”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” they said.</p> - -<p>“And had he got a beard?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he had a beard.”</p> - -<p>“And had he got horns?”</p> - -<p>“What sort of horns, you fool?”</p> - -<p>“Well, look!” And he threw down the head.</p> - -<p>The people looked and saw that it was a goat, and they spat at the fool -and went home.</p> - -</div> - -<p>This story, more than pages of analysis and more than chapters of -argument, illustrates what I mean: namely, that if the Russian poet -and the Russian peasant, the one in his verse, the other in his folk -tales and fairy stories, are matter-of-fact, alien to flights of -exaggerated fancy, and above all things enamoured of the truth; if by -their closeness to nature, their gift of seeing things as they are, and -expressing these things in terms of the utmost simplicity, without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span> -fuss, without affectation and without artificiality,—if, I say, all -this entitles us to call them realists, then this realism is not and -must never be thought of as being the fad of a special school, the -theory of a limited clique, or the watchword of a literary camp, but -it is rather the natural expression of the Russian temperament and the -Russian character.</p> - -<p>I will try throughout this book to attempt to illustrate this character -and this temperament as best I can, by observing widely different -manifestations of it; but all these manifestations, however different -they may be, contain one great quality in common: that is, the quality -of reality of which I have been writing. And unless the student of -Russian literature realises this and appreciates what Russian realism -consists of, and what it really means, he will be unable to understand -either the men or the literature of Russia.</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_3" href="#FNanchor_3" class="label">[3]</a> This translation is in the metre of the original. It is -literal; but hopelessly inadequate.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_4" href="#FNanchor_4" class="label">[4]</a> In the Russian, although every word of the poem is -familiar, not a word of slang is used.</p> - -</div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_III">CHAPTER III<br /><span class="small">GOGOL AND THE CHEERFULNESS OF THE RUSSIAN PEOPLE</span></h2> -</div> - - - -<p>The first thing that strikes the English reader when he dips into -translations of Russian literature, is the unrelieved gloom, the -unmitigated pessimism of the characters and the circumstances -described. Everything is grey, everybody is depressed; the atmosphere -is one of hopeless melancholy. On the other hand, the first thing that -strikes the English traveller when he arrives in Russia for the first -time, is the cheerfulness of the Russian people. Nowhere have I seen -this better described than in an article, written by <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Charles Hands, -which appeared in the summer of 1905 in <i>The Daily Mail</i>. <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> -Hands summed up his idea of the Russian people, which he had gathered -after living with them for two years, both in peace and in war, in -a short article. His final impression was the same as that which he -received on the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span> day he arrived in Russia for the first time. That was -in winter; it was snowing; the cold was intense. The streets of St. -Petersburg were full of people, and in spite of the driving snow, the -bitter wind, and the cruel cold, everybody was smiling, everybody was -making the best of it. Nowhere did you hear people grumbling, or come -across a face stamped with a grievance.</p> - -<p>I myself experienced an impression of the same kind, one evening in -July 1906. I was strolling about the streets of St. Petersburg. It was -the Sunday of the dissolution of the Duma; the dissolution had been -announced that very morning. The streets were crowded with people, -mostly poor people. I was walking with an Englishman who had spent some -years in Russia, and he said to me: “It is all very well to talk of -the calamities of this country. Have you ever in your life seen a more -cheerful Sunday crowd?” I certainly had not.</p> - -<p>The Russian character has an element of happy consent and submission -to the inevitable; of adapting itself to any circumstance, however -disagreeable, which I have never come across in any other country. The -Russians have a faculty of making the best of things which I have never -seen developed in so high a degree. I remember once in Manchuria during -the war, some soldiers,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> who were under the command of a sergeant, -preparing early one morning, just before the battle of Ta-Shi-Chiao, -to make some tea. Suddenly a man in command said there would not be -time to have tea. The men simply said, “To-day no tea will be drunk,” -with a smile; it did not occur to any one to complain, and they put -away the kettle, which was just on the boil, and drove away in a cart. -I witnessed this kind of incident over and over again. I remember one -night at a place called Lonely Tree Hill. I was with a battery. We -had just arrived, and there were no quarters. We generally lived in -Chinese houses, but on this occasion there were none to be found. We -encamped on the side of a hill. There was no shelter, no food, and -no fire, and presently it began to rain. The Cossacks, of whom the -battery was composed, made a kind of shelter out of what straw and -millet they could find, and settled themselves down as comfortably and -as cheerfully as if they had been in barracks. They accomplished the -difficult task of making themselves comfortable out of nothing, and of -making me comfortable also.</p> - -<p>Besides this power of making the best of things, the Russians have a -keen sense of humour. The clowns in their circuses are inimitable. A -type you frequently meet in Russia is the man who tells stories and -anecdotes which are distinguished<span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span> by simplicity and by a knack of just -seizing on the ludicrous side of some trivial episode or conversation. -Their humour is not unlike English humour in kind, and this explains -the wide popularity of our humorous writers in Russia, beginning with -Dickens, including such essentially English writers as W. W. Jacobs -and the author of <i>The Diary of a Nobody</i>, and ending with Jerome -K. Jerome, whose complete works can be obtained at any Russian railway -station.<a id="FNanchor_5" href="#Footnote_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p> - -<p>All these elements are fully represented in Russian literature; but -the kind of Russian literature which is saturated with these qualities -either does not reach us at all, or reaches us in scarce and inadequate -translations.</p> - -<p>The greatest humorist of Russian literature, the Russian Dickens, is -Nikolai Vasilievitch Gogol. Translations of some of his stories and -of his longest work, <i>Dead Souls</i>, were published in 1887 by <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> -Vizetelly. These translations are now out of print, and the work of -Gogol may be said to be totally unknown in England. In France some -of his stories have been translated by no less a writer than Prosper -Mérimée.</p> - -<p>Gogol was a Little Russian, a Cossack by birth;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span> he belonged to the -Ukraine, that is to say, the frontier country, the district which lies -between the north and the extreme south. It is a country of immense -plains, rich harvests, and smiling farms; of vines, laughter, and song. -He was born in 1809 near Poltava, in the heart of the Cossack country. -He was brought up by his grandfather, who had been the regimental -chronicler of the Zaporozhian Cossacks, who live in the region -beyond the falls of the Dnieper. His childhood was nursed in the warlike -traditions of that race, and fed with the tales of a heroic epoch, the -wars against Poland and the deeds of the dwellers of the Steppes. Later -he was sent to school, and in 1829, when he was twenty years old, he -went to St. Petersburg, where after many disillusions and difficulties -he obtained a place in a Government office. The time that he spent -in this office gave him the material for one of his best stories. -He soon tired of office work, and tried to go on the stage, but no -manager would engage him. He became a tutor, but was not a particularly -successful one. At last some friends obtained for him the professorship -of History at the University, but he failed in this profession also, -and so he finally turned to literature. By the publication of his first -efforts in the St. Petersburg press, he made some friends, and through -these he obtained an introduction to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span> Pushkin, the greatest of Russian -poets, who was at that time in the fullness of his fame.</p> - -<p>Pushkin was a character devoid of envy and jealousy, overflowing with -generosity, and prodigal of praise. Gogol subsequently became his -favourite writer, and it was Pushkin who urged Gogol to write about -Russian history and popular Russian scenes. Gogol followed his advice -and wrote the <i>Evenings in a Farmhouse on the Dikanka</i>. These -stories are supposed to be told by an old beekeeper; and in them Gogol -puts all the memories of his childhood, the romantic traditions, the -fairy tales, the legends, the charming scenery, and the cheerful life -of the Little Russian country.</p> - -<p>In these stories he revealed the twofold nature of his talent: a -fantasy, a love of the supernatural, and a power of making us feel it, -which reminds one of Edgar Allan Poe, of Hoffmann, and of Robert Louis -Stevenson; and side by side with this fantastic element, the keenest -power of observation, which is mixed with an infectious sense of humour -and a rich and delightful drollery. Together with these gifts, Gogol -possessed a third quality, which is a blend of his fantasy and his -realism, namely, the power of depicting landscape and places, with -their colour and their atmosphere, in warm and vivid language. It is -this latter gift with which I shall deal first. Here, for instance, is -a description of the river Dnieper:</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Wonderful is the Dnieper when in calm weather, smooth and wilful, -it drives its full waters through the woods and the hills; it does -not whisper, it does not boom. One gazes and gazes without being able -to tell whether its majestic spaces are moving or not: one wonders -whether the river is not a sheet of glass, when like a road of crystal -azure, measureless in its breadth and unending in its length, it -rushes and swirls across the green world. It is then that the sun -loves to look down from the sky and to plunge his rays into the cool -limpid waters; and the woods which grow on the banks are sharply -reflected in the river.</p> - -<p>“The green-tressed trees and the wild flowers crowd together at the -water’s edge; they bend down and gaze at themselves; they are never -tired of their own bright image, but smile to it and greet it, as -they incline their boughs. They dare not look into the midst of the -Dnieper; no one save the sun and the blue sky looks into that. It is -rare that a bird flies as far as the midmost waters. Glorious river, -there is none other like it in the world!</p> - -<p>“Wonderful is the Dnieper in the warm summer nights when all things -are asleep: men and beasts and birds, and God alone in His majesty -looks round on the heaven and the earth and royally spreads out His -sacerdotal vestment and lets it tremble. And from this vestment the -stars are scattered: the stars burn and shine over the world, and all -are reflected in the Dnieper. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span> Dnieper receives them all into -its dark bosom: not one escapes it. The dark wood with its sleeping -ravens, and the old rugged mountains above them, try to hide the river -with their long dark shadows, but it is in vain: there is nothing in -all the world which could overshadow the Dnieper! Blue, infinitely -blue, its smooth surface is always moving by night and by day, and is -visible in the distance as far as mortal eye can see. It draws near -and nestles in the banks in the cool of the night, and leaves behind -it a silver trail, that gleams like the blade of a sword of Damascus. -But the blue river is once more asleep. Wonderful is the Dnieper then, -and there is nothing like it in the world!</p> - -<p>“But when the dark clouds gather in the sky, and the black wood is -shaken to its roots, the oak trees tremble, and the lightnings, -bursting in the clouds, light up the whole world again, terrible then -is the Dnieper. The crests of the waters thunder, dashing themselves -against the hills; fiery with lightning, and loud with many a moan, -they retreat and dissolve and overflow in tears in the distance. Just -in such a way does the aged mother of the Cossack weep when she goes -to say good-bye to her son, who is off to the wars. He rides off, -wanton, debonair, and full of spirit; he rides on his black horse with -his elbows well out at the side, and he waves his cap. And his mother -sobs and runs after him; she clutches hold of his stirrup, seizes the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span> -snaffle, throws her arms round her son, and weeps bitterly.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Another characteristic description of Gogol’s is the picture he gives -us of the Steppes:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“The farther they went, the more beautiful the Steppes became. At that -time the whole of the country which is now Lower New Russia, reaching -as far as the Black Sea, was a vast green wilderness. Never a plough -had passed over its measureless waves of wild grass. Only the horses, -which were hidden in it as though in a wood, trampled it down. Nothing -in Nature could be more beautiful than this grass. The whole of the -surface of the earth was like a gold and green sea, on which millions -of flowers of different colours were sprinkled. Through the high and -delicate stems of grass the cornflowers twinkled—light blue, dark -blue, and lilac. The yellow broom pushed upward its pointed crests; -the white milfoil, with its flowers like fairy umbrellas, dappled the -surface of the grass; an ear of wheat, which had come Heaven knows -whence, was ripening.</p> - -<p>“At the roots of the flowers and the grass, partridges were running -about everywhere, thrusting out their necks. The air was full of a -thousand different bird-notes. Hawks hovered motionless in the sky, -spreading out their wings, and fixing their eyes on the grass. The cry -of a flock of wild geese was echoed in I know not what far-off lake. A -gull rose from the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span> grass in measured flight, and bathed wantonly in -the blue air; now she has vanished in the distance, and only a black -spot twinkles; and now she wheels in the air and glistens in the sun.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Of course, descriptions such as these lose all their beauty in -a translation, for Gogol’s language is rich and native; full of -diminutives and racial idiom, nervous and highly-coloured. To translate -it into English is like translating Rabelais into English. I have given -these two examples more to show the nature of the thing he describes -than the manner in which he describes it.</p> - -<p>Throughout this first collection of stories there is a blend of broad -farce and poetical fancy; we are introduced to the humours of the fair, -the adventures of sacristans with the devil and other apparitions; to -the Russalka, a naiad, a kind of land-mermaid, or Loreley, which haunts -the woods and the lakes. And every one of these stories smells of the -South Russian soil, and is overflowing with sunshine, good-humour, and -a mellow charm. This side of Russian life is not only wholly unknown -in Europe, but it is not even suspected. The picture most people have -in their minds of Russia is a place of grey skies and bleak monotonous -landscape, weighed down by an implacable climate. These things exist, -but there is another side as well, and it is this other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> side that -Gogol tells of in his early stories. We are told much about the -Russian winter, but who ever thinks of the Russian spring? And there -is nothing more beautiful in the world, even in the north and centre -of Russia, than the abrupt and sudden invasion of springtime which -comes shortly after the melting snows, when the woods are carpeted with -lilies-of-the-valley, and the green of the birch trees almost hurts the -eye with its brilliance.</p> - -<p>Nor are we told much about the Russian summer, with its wonderful warm -nights, nor of the pageant of the plains when they become a rippling -sea of golden corn. If the spring and the summer are striking in -northern and central Russia, much more is this so in the south, where -the whole character of the country is as cheerful and smiling as -that of Devonshire or Normandy. The farms are whitewashed and clean; -sometimes they are painted light blue or pink; vines grow on the walls; -there is an atmosphere of sunshine and laziness everywhere, accompanied -by much dancing and song.</p> - -<p>Once when I was in St. Petersburg I was talking to a peasant member of -the Duma who came from the south. After he had declaimed for nearly -twenty minutes on the terrible condition of the peasants in the -country, their needs, their wants, their misery, their ignorance, he -added<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span> thoughtfully: “All the same we have great fun in our village; -you ought to come and stay there. There is no such life in the world!” -The sunshine and laughter of the south of Russia rise before us -from every page of these stories of Gogol. Here, for instance, is a -description of a summer’s day in Little Russia, the day of a fair:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“How intoxicating, how rich, is a summer’s day in Little Russia! How -overwhelmingly hot are those hours of noonday silence and haze! Like -a boundless azure sea, the dome of the sky, bending as though with -passion over the world, seems to have fallen asleep, all drowned in -softness, and clasps and caresses the beautiful earth with a celestial -embrace. There is no cloud in the sky; and the stream is silent. -Everything is as if it were dead; only aloft in the deeps of the sky -a lark quivers, and its silvery song echoes down the vault of heaven, -and reaches the lovesick earth. And from time to time the cry of the -seagull or the clear call of the quail is heard in the plain.</p> - -<p>“Lazily and thoughtlessly, as though they were idling vaguely, -stand the shady oaks; and the blinding rays of the sun light up the -picturesque masses of foliage, while the rest of the tree is in a -shadow dark as night, and only when the wind rises, a flash of gold -trembles across it.</p> - -<p>“Like emeralds, topazes and amethysts, the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span> diaphanous insects flutter -in the many-coloured fruit gardens, which are shaded by stately -sun-flowers. Grey haycocks and golden sheaves of corn stand in rows -along the field like hillocks on the immense expanse. Broad boughs -bend under their load of cherries, plums, apples, and pears. The sky -is the transparent mirror of the day, and so is the river, with its -high green frame of trees.... How luscious and how soft is the summer -in Little Russia!</p> - -<p>“It was just such a hot day in August 18—, when the road, ten versts -from the little town of Sorochinetz, was seething with people hurrying -from all the farms, far and near, to the fair. With the break of day -an endless chain of waggons laboured along, carrying salt and fish. -Mountains of pots wrapped in hay moved slowly on as if they were -weary of being cut off from the sunshine. Only here and there some -brightly-painted soup tureen or earthenware saucepan proudly emerged -on the tilt of the high-heaped waggon, and attracted the eyes of -lovers of finery; many passers-by looked with envy on the tall potter, -the owner of all these treasures, who with slow steps walked beside -his goods.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Why are we never told of these azure Russian days, of these laden -fruit-trees and jewelled insects?</p> - -<p>In 1832, Gogol published a continuation of this series, entitled -<i>Stories of Mirgorod</i>. This collection contains the masterpieces -of the romantic,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span> and the fantastic side of Gogol’s genius. His highest -effort in the romantic province is the historical history of <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">Taras -Bulba</i>, which is a prose epic. It is the tale of an old Cossack -chieftain whose two sons, Ostap and Andrii, are brought up in the -Zaporozhian settlement of the Cossacks, and trained as warriors to -fight the Poles. They lay siege to the Polish city of Dubno, and starve -the city. Andrii, the younger son, discovers that a girl whom he had -loved at Kiev, before his Cossack training, is shut up in the city. The -girl’s servant leads him into Dubno by an underground passage. Andrii -meets his lady-love and abandons the Cossack cause, saying that his -fatherland and his country is there where his heart is.</p> - -<p>In the meantime the Polish troops arrive, reinforce the beleagured -garrison; Andrii is for ever lost to Cossack chivalry, and his country -and his father’s house shall know him no more. News then comes that in -the absence of the Cossacks from their camp in the Ukraine, the Tartars -have plundered it. So they send half their army to defend it, while -half of it remains in front of the besieged city. The Poles attack the -Cossacks who are left.</p> - -<p>There is a terrific battle, in which Andrii fights against the -Cossacks. He is taken prisoner by his own father, who bids him -dismount. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span> dismounts obediently, and his father addresses him thus: -“I begot you, and now I shall kill you.” And he shoots him dead.</p> - -<p>Immediately after this incident Taras Bulba and his elder son, Ostap, -are attacked by the enemy. Ostap, after inflicting deadly losses on -the enemy, is separated from his father,—who falls in a swoon, and -owing to this escapes,—and taken prisoner. Ostap is taken to the city -and tortured to death. In the extremity of his torment, after having -endured the long agonies without a groan, he cries out: “Father, do you -hear me?” And from the crowd a terrible voice is heard answering: “I -hear!” Later, Taras raises an army of Cossacks to avenge the death of -his son, and lays waste the country; but at the end he is caught and -put to death by the Poles.</p> - -<p>This story is told with epic breadth and simplicity; the figure of the -old warrior is Homeric, and Homeric also is the character of the young -traitor Andrii, who, although he betrays his own people, never loses -sympathy, so strong is the impression you receive of his brilliance, -his dash, and his courage.</p> - -<p>In the domain of fantasy, Gogol’s masterpiece is to be found in -this same collection. It is called <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">Viy</i>. It is the story of a -beautiful lady who is a witch. She casts her spell on a student in -theology, and when she dies, her dying will is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span> that he shall spend -three nights in reading prayers over her body, in the church where her -coffin lies. During his watch on the first night, the dead maiden rises -from her coffin, and watches him with glassy, opaque eyes. He hears the -flapping of the wings of innumerable birds, and in the morning is found -half dead from terror. He attempts to avoid the ordeal on the second -night, but the girl’s father, an old Cossack, forces him to carry out -his daughter’s behest, and three nights are spent by the student in -terrible conflict with the witch. On the third night he dies. The great -quality of this story is the atmosphere of overmastering terror that it -creates.</p> - -<p>With these two stories, <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">Taras Bulba</i> and <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">Viy</i>, Gogol took -leave of Romanticism and Fantasy, and started on the path of Realism. -In this province he was what the Germans call a <i lang="de" xml:lang="de">bahnbrecher</i>, -and he discovered a new kingdom. It may be noticed that Gogol, roughly -speaking, began where Dickens ended; that is to say, he wrote his -<i>Tale of Two Cities</i> first, and his <i>Pickwick</i> last. But -already in this collection of Mirgorod tales there are two stories in -the humorous realistic vein, which Gogol never excelled; one is called -<i>Old-fashioned Landowners</i>, and the other <i>How Ivan Ivanovitch -quarreled with Ivan Nikiforovitch</i>.</p> - -<p><i>Old-fashioned Landowners</i> is a simple story.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span> It is about an -old couple who lived in a low-roofed little house, with a verandah of -blackened tree-trunks, in the midst of a garden of dwarfed fruit-trees -covered with cherries and plums. The couple, Athanasii Ivanovitch and -his wife Pulcheria Ivanovna, are old. He is sixty, she is fifty-five. -It is the story of Philemon and Baucis. Nothing happens in it, except -that we are introduced to these charming, kind, and hospitable people; -that Pulcheria dies, and that after her death everything in the house -becomes untidy and slovenly, because Athanasii cannot live without -her; and after five years he follows her to the grave, and is buried -beside her. There is nothing in the story, and there is everything. It -is amusing, charming, and infinitely pathetic. Some of the touches of -description remind one strongly of Dickens. Here, for instance, is a -description of the doors of the house where the old couple lived:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“The most remarkable thing about the house was the creaking of the -doors. As soon as day broke, the singing of these doors was heard -throughout the whole house. I cannot say why they made the noise: -either it was the rusty hinges, or else the workman who made them -hid some secret in them; but the remarkable thing was that each door -had its own special note. The door going into the bedroom sang in a -delicate treble; the door going into the dining-room<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> had a hoarse -bass note; but that which led into the front hall made a strange -trembling, groaning noise, so that if you listened to it intently you -heard it distinctly saying, ‘Batiushka, I am so cold!’”</p> -</div> - -<p>The story of the two Ivans is irresistibly funny. The two Ivans were -neighbours; one of them was a widower and the other a bachelor. They -were the greatest friends. Never a day passed without their seeing each -other, and their greatest pleasure was to entertain each other at big, -Dickens-like meals. But one day they quarrelled about a gun, and Ivan -Nikiforovitch called Ivan Ivanovitch a goose. After this they would not -see each other, and their relations were broken off. Hitherto, Ivan -Nikiforovitch and Ivan Ivanovitch had sent every day to inquire about -each other’s health, had conversed together from their balconies, and -had said charming things to each other. On Sundays they had gone to -church arm in arm, and outdone each other in mutual civilities; but now -they would not look at each other.</p> - -<p>At length the quarrel went so far that Ivan Ivanovitch lodged a -complaint against Ivan Nikiforovitch, saying that the latter had -inflicted a deadly insult on his personal honour, firstly by calling -him a goose, secondly by building a goose-shed opposite his porch, -and thirdly by<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span> cherishing a design to burn his house down. Ivan -Nikiforovitch lodged a similar petition against Ivan Ivanovitch. -As bad luck would have it, Ivan Ivanovitch’s brown sow ate Ivan -Nikiforovitch’s petition, and this, of course, made the quarrel worse.</p> - -<p>At last a common friend of the pair attempts to bring about a -reconciliation, and asks the two enemies to dinner. After much -persuasion they consent to meet. They go to the dinner, where a large -company is assembled; both Ivans eat their meal without glancing at -each other, and as soon as the dinner is over they rise from their -seats and make ready to go. At this moment they are surrounded on all -sides, and are adjured by the company to forget their quarrel. Each -says that he was innocent of any evil design, and the reconciliation is -within an ace of being effected when, unfortunately, Ivan Nikiforovitch -says to Ivan Ivanovitch: “Permit me to observe, in a friendly manner, -that you took offence because I called you a goose.” As soon as the -fatal word “goose” is uttered, all reconciliation is out of the -question, and the quarrel continues to the end of their lives.</p> - -<p>In 1835, Gogol retired definitely from the public service. At this -point of his career he wrote a number of stories and comedies, -of a varied nature, which he collected later in two<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span> volumes, -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Arabesques</i>, 1834, and <i>Tales</i>, 1836. It was the dawn of -his realistic phase, although he still indulged from time to time in -the fantastic, as in the grotesque stories, <i>The Nose</i>—the tale -of a nose which gets lost and wanders about—and <i>The Coach</i>. But -the most remarkable of these stories is <i>The Overcoat</i>, which is -the highest example of Gogol’s pathos, and contains in embryo all the -qualities of vivid realism which he was to develop later. It is the -story of a clerk who has a passion for copying, and to whom caligraphy -is a fine art. He is never warm enough; he is always shivering. The -ambition, the dream of his life, is to have a warm overcoat. After -years of privation he saves up the sum necessary to realise his dream -and buy a new overcoat; but on the first day that he wears it, the coat -is stolen from him.</p> - -<p>The police, to whom he applies after the theft, laugh at him, and the -clerk falls into a black melancholy. He dies unnoticed and obscure, and -his ghost haunts the squalid streets where he was wont to walk.</p> - -<p>Nearly half of modern Russian literature descends directly from this -story. The figure of this clerk and the way he is treated by the author -is the first portrait of an endless gallery of the failures of this -world, the flotsam and jetsam of a social system: grotesque figures, -comic, pathetic, with a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span> touch of tragedy in them, which, since they -are handled by their creator with a kindly sympathy, and never with -cruelty or disdain, win our sympathy and live in our hearts and our -affections.</p> - -<p>During this same period Gogol wrote several plays, among which the -masterpiece is <i>The Inspector</i>. This play, which is still -immensely popular in Russia, and draws crowded houses on Sundays -and holidays, is a good-humoured, scathing satire on the Russian -Bureaucracy. As a translation of this play is easily to be obtained, -and as it has been performed in London by the Stage Society, I need -not dwell on it here, except to mention for those who are unacquainted -with it, that the subject of the play is a misunderstanding which -arises from a traveller being mistaken for a government inspector who -is expected to arrive incognito in a provincial town. A European critic -in reading or seeing this play is sometimes surprised and unreasonably -struck by the universal dishonesty of almost every single character in -the play. For instance, one of the characters says to another: “You -are stealing above your rank.” One should remember, however, that in a -translation it is impossible not to lose something of the good-humour -and the comic spirit of which the play is full. It has often been a -matter of surprise that this play, at the time when Gogol wrote it, -should have been passed by the censorship.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> The reason of this is that -Gogol had for censor the Emperor of Russia himself, who read the play, -was extremely amused by it, commanded its immediate performance, was -present at the first night, and led the applause.</p> - -<p>Hlestakov, the hero of <i>The Inspector</i>, is one of the most natural -and magnificent liars in literature. Gogol himself, in his stage -directions, describes him as a man “without a Tsar in his head,”—a man -who speaks and acts without the slightest reflection, and who is not -capable of consecutive thought, or of fixing his attention for more -than a moment on any single idea.</p> - -<p>In 1836, Gogol left Russia and settled in Rome. He had been working for -some time at another book, which he intended should be his masterpiece, -a book in which he intended to say <em>everything</em>, and express the -whole of his message. Gogol was possessed by this idea. The book was -to be divided into three parts. The first part appeared in 1842, the -second part, which was never finished, Gogol threw in the fire in a fit -of despair. It was, however, subsequently printed from an incomplete -manuscript which had escaped his notice. The third part was never -written. As it is, the first fragment of Gogol’s great ambition remains -his masterpiece, and the book by which he is best known. It is called -<i>Dead Souls</i>. The hero of this book is a man called Chichikov.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span> -He has hit on an idea by which he can make money by dishonest means. -Like all great ideas, it is simple. At the time at which the book -was written the serfs in Russia had not yet been emancipated. They -were called “souls,” and every landlord possessed so many “souls.” A -revision of the list of peasants took place every ten years, and the -landlord had to pay a poll-tax for the souls that had died during that -period, that is to say, for the men; women and children did not count. -Between the periods of revision nobody looked at the lists. If there -was any epidemic in the village the landlord lost heavily, as he had to -continue paying a tax for the “souls” who were dead.</p> - -<p>Chichikov’s idea was to take these “dead souls” from the landlords, -and pay the poll-tax, for them. The landlord would be only too pleased -to get rid of a property which was fictitious, and a tax which was -only too real. Chichikov could then register his purchases with all -due formality, for it would never occur to a tribunal to think that he -was asking them to legalise a sale of dead men; he could thus take the -documents to a bank at St. Petersburg or at Moscow, and mortgage the -“souls,” which he represented as living in some desert place in the -Crimea, at one hundred roubles apiece, and then be rich enough to buy -living “souls” of his own.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p> - -<p>Chichikov travelled all over Russia in search of “dead souls.” The book -tells us the adventures he met with; and the scheme is particularly -advantageous to the author, because it not only enables him to -introduce us to a variety of types, but the transaction itself, the -manner in which men behave when faced by the proposition, throws -a searchlight on their characters. Chichikov starts from a large -provincial town, which he makes his base, and thence explores the -country; the success or failure of his transactions forms the substance -of the book. Sometimes he is successful, sometimes the system breaks -down because the people in the country want to know the market value of -the “dead souls” in the town.</p> - -<p>The travels of Chichikov, like those of <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Pickwick, form a kind of -Odyssey. The types he introduces us to are extraordinarily comic; -there are fools who give their “souls” for nothing, and misers who -demand an exorbitant price for them. But sometimes Chichikov meets -with people who are as clever as himself, and who outwit him. One of -the most amusing episodes is that where he comes across a suspicious -old woman called Korobotchka. Chichikov, after arriving at her house -late at night, and having spent the night there, begins his business -transactions cautiously and tentatively. The old woman at first thinks -he has come to sell her tea, or that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span> he has come to buy honey. Then -Chichikov comes to the point, and asks her if any peasants have died -on her land. She says eighteen. He then asks her to sell them to him, -saying that he will give her money for them. She asks if he wishes to -dig them out of the ground. He explains that the transaction would only -take place upon paper. She asks him why he wants to do this. That, he -answers, is his own affair.</p> - -<p>“But they are dead,” she says.</p> - -<p>“Whoever said they were alive?” asked Chichikov. “It is a loss to you -that they are dead. You pay for them, and I will now save you the -trouble and the expense, and not only save you this, but give you -fifteen roubles into the bargain. Is it clear now?”</p> - -<p>“I really can’t say,” the old woman replies. “You see I never before -sold <em>dead</em> ‘souls.’” And she keeps on repeating: “What bothers me -is that they are <em>dead</em>.”</p> - -<p>Chichikov again explains to her that she has to pay a tax on them just -as though they were alive.</p> - -<p>“Don’t talk of it!” she says. “Only a week ago I had to pay one hundred -and fifty roubles.”</p> - -<p>Chichikov again explains to her how advantageous it would be for her to -get them off her<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span> hands, upon which she answers that she has never had -occasion to sell dead souls; if they were alive, on the other hand, she -would have been delighted to do it.</p> - -<p>“But I don’t want live ones! I want dead ones,” answers Chichikov.</p> - -<p>“I am afraid,” she says, “that I might lose over the bargain—that you -may be deceiving me.”</p> - -<p>Chichikov explains the whole thing over again, offering her fifteen -roubles, and showing her the money; upon which she says she would like -to wait a little, to find out what they are really worth.</p> - -<p>“But who on earth will buy them from you?” asks Chichikov.</p> - -<p>“They might be useful on the estate,” says the old woman.</p> - -<p>“How can you use dead souls on the estate?” asks Chichikov.</p> - -<p>Korobotchka suggests that she would rather sell him some hemp, and -Chichikov loses his temper.</p> - -<p>Equally amusing are Chichikov’s adventures with the miser Plushkin, -Nozdref, a swaggering drunkard, and Manilov, who is simply a fool. -But when all is said and done, the most amusing person in the book is -Chichikov himself.</p> - -<p>At the end of the first volume, Gogol makes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span> a defence of his -hero. After having described the circumstances of his youth, his -surroundings, and all the influences which made him what he was, the -author asks: “Who is he?” And the answer he gives himself is: “Of -course a rascal: but why a rascal?” He continues:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Why should we be so severe on others? We have no rascals among us -now, we have only well-thinking, pleasant people; we have, it is true, -two or three men who have enjoyed the shame of being thrashed in -public, and even these speak of virtue. It would be more just to call -him a man who acquires; it is the passion for gain that is to blame -for everything. This passion is the cause of deeds which the world -characterises as ugly. It is true that in such a character there is -perhaps something repulsive. But the same reader who in real life will -be friends with such a man, who will dine with him, and pass the time -pleasantly with him, will look askance at the same character should -he meet with him as the hero of a book or of a poem. That man is wise -who is not offended by any character, but is able to look within it, -and to trace the development of nature to its first causes. Everything -in man changes rapidly. You have scarcely time to look round, before -inside the man’s heart a hateful worm has been born which absorbs -the vital sap of his nature. And it often happens that not only a -great passion, but some ridiculous whim for a trivial object,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span> grows -in a man who was destined to better deeds, and causes him to forget -his high and sacred duty, and to mistake the most miserable trifle -for what is most exalted and most holy. The passions of mankind are -as countless as the sands of the sea, and each of them is different -from the others; and all of them, mean or beautiful, start by being -subject to man, and afterwards become his most inexorable master. -Happy is the man who has chosen for himself a higher passion ... but -there are passions which are not chosen by man: they are with him -from the moment of his birth, and strength is not given him to free -himself from them. These passions are ordered according to a high -plan, and there is something in them which eternally and incessantly -summons him, and which lasts as long as life lasts. They have a great -work to accomplish; whether they be sombre or whether they be bright, -their purpose is to work for an ultimate good which is beyond the ken -of man. And perhaps in this same Chichikov the ruling passion which -governs him is not of his choosing, and in his cold existence there -may be something which will one day cause us to humble ourselves on -our knees and in the dust before the Divine wisdom.”</p> -</div> - -<p>I quote this passage at length because it not only explains the point -of view of Gogol towards his creation, but also that which nearly all -Russian authors and novelists hold with regard to mankind in general. -Gogol’s <i>Dead Souls</i> is an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span> extremely funny book; it is full of -delightful situations, comic characters and situations. At the same -time it has often struck people as being a sad book. When Gogol read -out to Pushkin the first chapter, Pushkin, who at other times had -always laughed when Gogol read his work to him, became sadder and -sadder, and said when Gogol had reached the end: “What a sad country -Russia is!”</p> - -<p>It is true, as Gogol himself says at the end of the first volume of -<i>Dead Souls</i>, that there is probably not one of his readers who, -after an honest self-examination, will not wonder whether he has not -something of Chichikov in himself. And if at such a moment such a man -should meet an acquaintance in the street, whose rank is neither too -exalted for criticism nor too obscure for notice, he will nudge his -companion, and say with a chuckle: “There goes Chichikov!” Perhaps -every Russian feels that there is something of Chichikov in him, and -Chichikov is a rascal, and most of the other characters in <i>Dead -Souls</i> are rascals also; people who try to cheat their neighbours, -and feel no moral scruples or remorse after they have done so. But in -spite of all this, the impression that remains with one after reading -the book is not one of bitterness or of melancholy. For in all the -characters there is a vast amount of good-nature and of humanity. Also, -as Gogol<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span> has pointed out in the passage quoted above, the peculiar -blend of faults and qualities on which moralists may be severe, may be -a special part of the Divine scheme.</p> - -<p>However this may be, what strikes the casual student most when he -has read <i>Dead Souls</i>, is that Gogol is the only Russian author -who has given us in literature the universal type of Russian; the -Russian “man in the street.” Tolstoy has depicted the upper classes. -Dostoievsky has reached the innermost depths of the Russian soul in its -extremest anguish and at its highest pitch. Tourgeniev has fixed on the -canvas several striking portraits, which suffer from the defect either -of being caricatures, or of being too deeply dyed in the writer’s -pessimism and self-consciousness. Gorky has painted in lurid colours -one side of the common people. Andreev has given us the nightmares -of the younger generation. Chekov has depicted the pessimism and the -ineffectiveness of the “intelligenzia.”<a id="FNanchor_6" href="#Footnote_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> But nobody except Gogol -has given us the ordinary cheerful Russian man in the street, with -his crying faults, his attractive good qualities, and his overflowing -human nature. In fact, it is the work of Gogol that explains the -attraction which the Russian character and the Russian country exercise -over people who have come beneath their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span> influence. At first sight -the thing seems inexplicable. The country seems ugly, dreary and -monotonous, without art, without beauty and without brilliance; the -climate is either fiercely cold and damp, or excruciatingly dry and -hot; the people are slow and heavy; there is a vast amount of dirt, -dust, disorder, untidiness, slovenliness, squalor, and sordidness -everywhere; and yet in spite of all this, even a foreigner who has -lived in Russia (not to speak of the Russians themselves), and who has -once come in contact with its people, can never be quite free from its -over-mastering charm, and the secret fascination of the country.</p> - -<p>In another passage towards the end of <i>Dead Souls</i>, Gogol writes -about this very thing as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Russia” (he writes), “I see you from the beautiful ‘far away’ where -I am. Everything in you is miserable, disordered and inhospitable. -There are no emphatic miracles of Nature to startle the eye, graced -with equally startling miracles of art. There are no towns with high, -many-windowed castles perched on the top of crags; there are no -picturesque trees, no ivy-covered houses beside the ceaseless thunder -and foam of waterfalls. One never strains one’s neck back to look at -the piled-up rocky crags soaring endlessly into the sky. There never -shines, through dark and broken arches<span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span> overgrown with grapes, ivy, -and a million wild roses,—there never shines, I say, from afar the -eternal line of gleaming mountains standing out against transparent -and silver skies. Everything in you is open and desert and level; like -dots, your squatting towns lie almost unobserved in the midst of the -plains. There is nothing to flatter or to charm the eye. What then is -the secret and incomprehensible power which lies hidden in you? Why -does your aching melancholy song, which wanders throughout the length -and breadth of you, from sea to sea, sound and echo unceasingly in -one’s ears? What is there in this song? What is there that calls and -sobs and captures the heart? What are the sounds which hurt as they -kiss, pierce my very inmost soul and flood my heart? Russia, what do -you want of me? What inexplicable bond is there between you and me?”</p> -</div> - -<p>Gogol does not answer the question, and if he cannot put his finger -on the secret it would be difficult for any one else to do so. -But although he does not answer the question directly, he does so -indirectly by his works. Any one who reads Gogol’s early stories, -even <i>Dead Souls</i>, will understand the inexplicable fascination -hidden in a country which seems at first sight so devoid of outward and -superficial attraction, and in a people whose defects are so obvious -and unconcealed. The charm of Russian life lies in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span> its essential -goodness of heart, and in its absence of hypocrisy, and it is owing -to this absence of hypocrisy that the faults of the Russian character -are so easy to detect. It is for this reason that in Gogol’s realistic -and satirical work, as in <i>The Inspector</i> and <i>Dead Souls</i>, -the characters startle the foreign observer by their frank and almost -universal dishonesty. The truth is that they do not take the trouble -to conceal their shortcomings; they are indulgent to the failings of -others, and not only expect but know that they will find their own -faults treated with similar indulgence. Faults, failings, and vices -which in Western Europe would be regarded with uncompromising censure -and merciless blame, meet in Russia either with pity or good-humoured -indulgence.</p> - -<p>This happy-go-lucky element, the good-natured indulgence and scepticism -with which Russians regard many things which we consider of grave -import, are, no doubt, to a great extent the cause of the evils which -exist in the administrative system of the country—the cause of nearly -all the evils of which Russian reformers so bitterly complain. On the -other hand, it should not be forgotten that this same good-humour -and this same indulgence, the results of which in public life are -slackness, disorder, corruption, irresponsibility and arbitrariness, -in private life produce<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span> results of a different nature, such as pity, -charity, hospitality and unselfishness; for the good-humour and the -good-nature of the Russian proceed directly from goodness, and from -nothing else.</p> - -<p>Gogol never finished <i>Dead Souls</i>. He went on working on the -second and third parts of it until the end of his life, in 1852; and -he twice threw the work, when it was completed, into the fire. All we -possess is an incomplete copy of a manuscript of the second part, which -escaped destruction. He had intended the second part to be more serious -than the first; his ambition was to work out the moral regeneration of -Chichikov, and in doing so to attain to a full and complete expression -of his ideals and his outlook on life. The ambition pursued and -persecuted him like a feverish dream, and not being able to realise -it, he turned back upon himself and was driven inward. His nature was -religious to the core, since it was based on a firm and unshaken belief -in Providence; and there came a time when he began to experience that -distaste of the world which ultimately leads to a man becoming an -ascetic and a recluse.</p> - -<p>He lived in Rome, isolated from the world; he became consumed with -religious zeal; he preached to his friends and acquaintances the -Christian virtues of humility, resignation and charity; he urged them -not to resist authority, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span> to become contrite Christians. And in -order that the world should hear him, in 1847 he published passages -from a correspondence with friends. In these letters Gogol insisted on -the paramount necessity of spiritual life; but instead of attacking the -Church he defended it, and preached submission both to it and to the -Government.</p> - -<p>The book created a sensation, and raised a storm of abuse. Some of -the prominent Liberals were displeased. It was, of course, easy for -them to attack Gogol; for here, they said, was the man who had, more -than any other, satirised and discredited the Russian Government and -Russian administration, coming forward as an apostle of orthodoxy -and officialdom. The intellectual world scorned him as a mystic, -and considered the matter settled; but if the word “mystic” had the -significance which these people seem to have attached to it, then -Gogol was not a mystic. There was nothing extravagant or uncommon in -his religion. He gave up writing, and devoted himself to religion and -good works; but this does not constitute what the intellectuals seem to -have meant by mysticism. Mysticism with them was equivalent to madness. -If, on the other hand, we mean by mysticism the transcendent common -sense which recognises a Divine order of things, and the reality of an -invisible world, then Gogol<span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span> was a mystic. Therefore, when Gogol ceased -to write stories, he no more <em>became</em> a mystic than did Pascal -when he ceased going into society, or than Racine did when he ceased -to write plays. In the other sense of the word he was a mystic all his -life; so was Racine.</p> - -<p>At the age of thirty-three his creative faculties had dried up, and at -the age of forty-three, in February 1852, he died of typhoid fever. -The place of Gogol in Russian literature is a very high one. Prosper -Mérimée places him among the best <em>English</em> humorists. Gogol’s -European reputation is less great than it should be, because his -subject-matter is more remote. But of all the Russian prose writers of -the last century, Gogol is perhaps the most national. His work smells -of the soil of Russia; there is nothing imitative or foreign about it. -When he published <i>The Inspector</i>, the motto which he appended -to it was: “If your mouth is crooked, don’t blame the looking-glass.” -He was a great humorist. He was also a great satirist. He was a -penetrating but not a pitiless observer; in his fun and his humour, -there is often a note of sadness, an accent of pathos, and a tinge of -wistful melancholy. His pathos and his laughter are closely allied one -to another, but in his sadness there is neither bitterness nor gloom; -there is no shadow of the powers of darkness, no breath of the icy -terror<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> which blows through the works of Tolstoy; there is no hint of -the emptiness and the void, or of a fear of them. There is nothing -akin to despair. For his whole outlook on life is based on faith -in Providence, and the whole of his morality consists in Christian -charity, and in submission to the Divine.</p> - -<p>In one of his lectures, Gogol, speaking of Pushkin, singles out, as -one of the qualities of Russian literature, the pity for all who are -unfortunate. This, he says, is a truly Russian characteristic.</p> - -<p>“Think,” he writes, “of that touching spectacle which our people afford -when they visit the exiles who are starting for Siberia, when every man -brings something, either food or money, or a kind word. There is here -no hatred of the criminal; no quixotic wish to make him a hero, or to -ask for his autograph or his portrait, or to regard him as an object of -morbid curiosity, as often happens in more civilised Europe. Here there -is something more: it is not the desire to whitewash him, or to deliver -him from the hands of the law, but to comfort his broken spirit, and to -console him as a brother comforts a brother, or as Christ ordered us to -console each other.”</p> - -<p>This sense of pity is the greatest gift that the Russian nation -possesses: it is likewise the cardinal<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> factor of Russian literature, -as well as its most precious asset; the inestimable legacy and -contribution which Russian authors have made to the literature of the -world. It is a thing which the Russians and no other people have given -us. There is no better way of judging of this quality and of estimating -its results, than to study the works of Russia’s greatest humorist, -satirist, and realist. For if realism can be so vivid without being -cruel, if satire can be so cruel without being bitter, and a sense of -the ridiculous so broad and so strong without being ill-natured, the -soil of goodness out of which these things all grow must indeed be rich -and deep, and the streams of pity with which it is watered must indeed -be plentiful.</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_5" href="#FNanchor_5" class="label">[5]</a> I met a Russian doctor in Manchuria, who knew pages of a -Russian translation of <i>Three Men in a Boat</i> by heart.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_6" href="#FNanchor_6" class="label">[6]</a> The highly educated professional middle class.</p> - -</div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_IV">CHAPTER IV<br /><span class="small">TOLSTOY AND TOURGENIEV</span></h2> -</div> - - - -<p>The eightieth birthday of Count Tolstoy, which was celebrated in -Russia on August 28 (old style), 1908, was closely followed by the -twenty-fifth anniversary of the death of Tourgeniev, who died on -September 3, 1883, at the age of sixty-five. These two anniversaries -followed close upon the publication of a translation into English of -the complete works of Count Tolstoy by Professor Wiener; and it is -not long ago that a new edition of the complete works of Tourgeniev, -translated into English by Mrs. Garnett, appeared. Both these -translations have been made with great care, and are faithful and -accurate. Thirty years ago it is certain that European critics, and -probable that Russian critics, would have observed, in commenting on -the concurrence of these two events, that Tolstoy and Tourgeniev were -the two giants of modern Russian literature. Is the case the same<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span> -to-day? Is it still true that, in the opinion of Russia and of Europe, -the names of Tolstoy and Tourgeniev stand pre-eminently above all their -contemporaries?</p> - -<p>With regard to Tolstoy the question can be answered without the -slightest hesitation. Time, which has inflicted such mournful damage -on so many great reputations in the last twenty-five years, has not -only left the fame of Tolstoy’s masterpieces unimpaired, but has -increased our sense of their greatness. The question arises, whose work -forms the complement to that of Tolstoy, and shares his undisputed -dominion of modern Russian literature? Is it Tourgeniev? In Russia at -the present day the answer would be “No,” it is not Tourgeniev. And -in Europe, students of Russian literature who are acquainted with the -Russian language—as we see in M. Emile Haumant’s study of Tourgeniev’s -life and work, and in Professor Brückner’s history of Russian -literature—would also answer in the negative, although their denial -would be less emphatic and not perhaps unqualified.</p> - -<p>The other giant, the complement of Tolstoy, almost any Russian -critic of the present day without hesitation would pronounce to be -Dostoievsky; and the foreign critic who is thoroughly acquainted with -Dostoievsky’s work cannot but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span> agree with him. I propose to go more -fully into the question of the merits and demerits of Dostoievsky later -on; but it is impossible not to mention him here, because the very -existence of his work powerfully affects our judgment when we come to -look at that of his contemporaries. We can no more ignore his presence -and his influence than we could ignore the presence of a colossal -fresco by Leonardo da Vinci in a room in which there were only two -other religious pictures, one by Rembrandt and one by Vandyck. For -any one who is familiar with Dostoievsky, and has felt his tremendous -influence, cannot look at the work of his contemporaries with the same -eyes as before. To such a one, the rising of Dostoievsky’s red and -troubled planet, while causing the rays of Tourgeniev’s serene star -to pale, leaves the rays of Tolstoy’s orb undiminished and undimmed. -Tolstoy and Dostoievsky shine in the firmament of Russian literature -like two planets, one of them as radiant as the planet Jupiter, the -other as ominous as the planet Mars. Beside either of these the light -of Tourgeniev twinkles, pure indeed, and full of pearly lustre, like -the moon faintly seen in the east at the end of an autumnal day.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>It is rash to make broad generalisations.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span> They bring with them a -certain element of exaggeration which must be discounted. Nevertheless -I believe that I am stating a fundamental truth in saying that the -Russian character can, roughly speaking, be divided into two types, and -these two types dominate the whole of Russian literature. The first is -that which I shall call, for want of a better name, Lucifer, the fallen -angel. The second type is that of the hero of all Russian folk-tales, -Ivan Durak, Ivan the Fool, or the Little Fool. There are innumerable -folk-tales in Russian which tell the adventures of Ivan the Fool, who, -by his very simplicity and foolishness, outwits the wisdom of the -world. This type is characteristic of one Russian ideal. The simple -fool is venerated in Russia as something holy. It is acknowledged that -his childish innocence is more precious than the wisdom of the wise. -Ivan Durak may be said to be the hero of all Dostoievsky’s novels. He -is the aim and ideal of Dostoievsky’s life, an aim and ideal which he -fully achieves. He is also the aim and ideal of Tolstoy’s teaching, but -an aim and ideal which Tolstoy recommends to others and only partly -achieves himself.</p> - -<p>The first type I have called, for want of a better name, since I can -find no concrete symbol of it in Russian folk-lore, Lucifer, the fallen -angel. This type is the embodiment of stubborn and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span> obdurate pride, the -spirit which cannot bend; such is Milton’s Satan, with his</p> - -<p class="poetry"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Courage never to submit or yield,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And what is else not to be overcome.”</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>This type is also widely prevalent in Russia, although it cannot be -said to be a popular type, embodied, like Ivan the Fool, in a national -symbol. One of the most striking instances of this, the Lucifer -type, which I have come across, was a peasant called Nazarenko, who -was a member of the first Duma. He was a tall, powerfully built, -rugged-looking man, spare and rather thin, with clear-cut prominent -features, black penetrating eyes, and thick black tangled hair. He -looked as if he had stepped out of a sacred picture by Velasquez. This -man had the pride of Lucifer. There was at that time, in July 1905, -an Inter-parliamentary Congress sitting in London. Five delegates of -the Russian Duma were chosen to represent Russia. It was proposed that -Nazarenko should represent the peasants. I asked him once if he were -going. He answered:</p> - -<p>“I shan’t go unless I am unanimously chosen by the others. I have -written down my name and asked, but I shall not ask twice. I never ask -twice for anything. When I say my prayers, I only ask God once for -a thing, and if it is not granted, I never ask again. So it is not -likely<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span> I would ask my fellow-men twice for anything. I am like that. I -leave out that passage in the prayers about being a miserable slave. I -am not a miserable slave, either of man or of Heaven.”</p> - -<p>Such a man recognises no authority, human or divine. Indeed he not only -refuses to acknowledge authority, but it will be difficult for him to -admire or bow down to any of those men or ideas which the majority have -agreed to believe worthy of admiration, praise, or reverence.</p> - -<p>Now, while Dostoievsky is the incarnation of the first type, of Ivan -the Fool, Tolstoy is the incarnation of the second. It is true that, at -a certain stage of his career, Tolstoy announced to the world that the -ideal of Ivan Durak was the only ideal worth following. He perceives -this aim with clearness, and, in preaching it, he has made a multitude -of disciples; the only thing he has never been able to do is to make -the supreme submission, the final surrender, and to become the type -himself.</p> - -<hr class="tb" /> - -<p>We know everything about Tolstoy, not only from the biographical -writings of Fet and Behrs, but from his own autobiography, his novels, -and his <i>Confession</i>. He gives us a panorama of events down to -the smallest detail of his long career, as well as of every phase of -feeling, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span> every shade and mood of his spiritual existence. The -English reader who wishes to be acquainted with all the important -facts of Tolstoy’s material and spiritual life cannot do better than -read <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Aylmer Maude’s <i>Life of Tolstoy</i>, which compresses -into one well-planned and admirably executed volume all that is of -interest during the first fifty years of Tolstoy’s career. In reading -this book a phrase of Tourgeniev’s occurs to one. “Man is the same, -from the cradle to the grave.” Tolstoy had been called inconsistent; -but the student of his life and work, far from finding inconsistency, -will rather be struck by the unvarying and obstinate consistency of -his ideas. Here, for instance, is an event recorded in Tolstoy’s -<i>Confession</i> (p. 1):</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I remember how, when I was about eleven, a boy, Vladimir Miliutin, -long since dead, visited us one Sunday, and announced as the latest -novelty a discovery made at his school. The discovery was that there -is no God at all, and all we are taught about Him is a mere invention. -I remember how interested my elder brothers were in this news. They -called me to their council, and we all, I remember, became animated, -and accepted the news as something very interesting and fully -possible.”</p> -</div> - -<p>There is already the germ of the man who was afterwards to look with -such independent eyes on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> the accepted beliefs and ideas of mankind, -to play havoc with preconceived opinions, and to establish to his own -satisfaction whether what was true for others was true for himself or -not. Later he says:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I was baptized and brought up in the Orthodox Christian faith. I was -taught it in childhood and all through my boyhood and youth. Before I -left the university, in my second year, at the age of eighteen, I no -longer believed anything I had been taught.”<a id="FNanchor_7" href="#Footnote_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a></p> -</div> - -<p>A Russian writer, M. Kurbski, describes how, when he first met Tolstoy, -he was overwhelmed by the look in Tolstoy’s eyes. They were more than -eyes, he said; they were like electric searchlights, which penetrated -into the depths of your mind, and, like a photographic lens, seized -and retained for ever a positive picture. In his <i>Childhood and -Youth</i>, Tolstoy gives us the most vivid, the most natural, the -most sensitive picture of childhood and youth that has ever been -penned by the hand of man. And yet, after reading it, one is left -half-unconsciously with the impression that the author feels there is -something wrong, something unsatisfactory behind it all.</p> - -<p>Tolstoy then passes on to describe the life of a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span> grown-up man, in -<i>The Morning of a Landowner</i>, in which he tells how he tried to -work in his own home, on his property, and to teach the peasants, and -how nothing came of his experiments. And again we have the feeling of -something unsatisfactory, and something wanting, something towards -which the man is straining, and which escapes him.</p> - -<p>A little later, Tolstoy goes to the Caucasus, to the war, where life -is primitive and simple, where he is nearer to nature, and where man -himself is more natural. And then we have <i>The Cossacks</i>, in which -Tolstoy’s searchlights are thrown upon the primitive life of the old -huntsman, the Cossack, Yeroshka, who lives as the grass lives, without -care, without grief, and without reflection. Once more we feel that the -soul of the writer is dissatisfied, still searching for something he -has not found.</p> - -<p>In 1854, Tolstoy took part in the Crimean War, which supplied him with -the stuff for what are perhaps the most truthful pictures of war that -have ever been written. But even here, we feel he has not yet found -his heart’s desire. Something is wrong. He was recommended for the St. -George’s Cross, but owing to his being without some necessary official -document at the time of his recommendation, he failed to receive it. -This incident is a symbol of the greater failure, the failure to -achieve the inward happiness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span> that he is seeking—a solid ground to -tread on, a bridge to the infinite, a final place of peace. In his -private diary there is an entry made at the commencement of the war, -while he was at Silistria, which runs as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I have no modesty; that is my great defect.... I am ugly, awkward, -uncleanly, and lack society education. I am irritable, a bore to -others, not modest; intolerant, and as shamefaced as a child.... I am -almost an ignoramus. What I do know I have learnt anyhow, by myself, -in snatches, without sequence, without a plan, and it amounts to very -little. I am incontinent, undecided, inconstant, and stupidly vain -and vehement, like all characterless people. I am not brave.... I am -clever, but my cleverness has as yet not been thoroughly tested on -anything.... I am honest; that is to say, I love goodness.... There -is a thing I love more than goodness, and that is fame. I am so -ambitious, and so little has this feeling been gratified, that, should -I have to choose between fame and goodness, I fear I may often choose -the former. Yes, I am not modest, and therefore I am proud at heart, -shamefaced, and shy in society.”</p> -</div> - -<p>At the time that Tolstoy wrote this he was a master, as <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Aylmer -Maude points out, of the French and German languages, besides having -some knowledge of English, Latin, Arabic, and Turco-Tartar. He had -published stories which<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span> had caused the editors of the best Russian -magazines to offer him the rate of pay accorded to the best-known -writers. Therefore his discontent with his position, both intellectual -and social, was in reality quite unfounded.</p> - -<p>After the Crimean War, Tolstoy went abroad. He found nothing in Western -Europe to satisfy him. On his return he settled down at Yasnaya -Polyana, and married; and the great patriarchal phase of his life -began, during which every gift and every happiness that man can be -blessed with seemed to have fallen to his lot. It was then that he -wrote <i>War and Peace</i>, in which he describes the conflict between -one half of Europe and the other. He takes one of the largest canvases -ever attacked by man; and he writes a prose epic on a period full of -tremendous events. His piercing glance sees through all the fictions of -national prejudice and patriotic bias; and he gives us what we feel to -be the facts as they were, the very truth. No detail is too small for -him, no catastrophe too great. He traces the growth of the spreading -tree to its minute seed, the course of the great river to its tiny -source. He makes a whole vanished generation of public and private men -live before our eyes in such a way that it is difficult to believe that -these people are not a part of our actual experience; and that his -creations<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> are not men and women we have seen with our own eyes, and -whose voices we have heard with our own ears.</p> - -<p>But when we put down this wonderful book, unequalled as a prose -epic, as a panorama of a period and a gallery of a thousand finished -portraits, we are still left with the impression that the author -has not yet found what he is seeking. He is still asking why? and -wherefore? What does it all mean? why all these horrors, why these -sacrifices? Why all this conflict and suffering of nations? What do -these high deeds, this heroism, mean? What is the significance of -these State problems, and the patriotic self-sacrifice of nations? We -are aware that the soul of Tolstoy is alone in an awful solitude, and -that it is shivering on the heights, conscious that all round it is -emptiness, darkness and despair.</p> - -<p>Again, in <i>War and Peace</i> we are conscious that Tolstoy’s proud -nature, the “Lucifer” type in him, is searching for another ideal; -and that in the character of Pierre Bezuhov he is already setting up -before us the ideal of Ivan Durak as the model which we should seek -to imitate. And in Pierre Bezuhov we feel that there is something of -Tolstoy himself. Manners change, but man, faced by the problem of -life, is the same throughout all ages; and, whether consciously or -unconsciously, Tolstoy proves this in writing <i>Anna<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> Karenina</i>. -Here again, on a large canvas, we see unrolled before us the -contemporary life of the upper classes in Russia, in St. Petersburg, -and in the country, with the same sharpness of vision, which seizes -every outward detail, and reveals every recess of the heart and mind. -Nearly all characters in all fiction seem bookish beside those of -Tolstoy. His men and women are so real and so true that, even if his -psychological analysis of them may sometimes err and go wrong from -its oversubtlety and its desire to explain too much, the characters -themselves seem to correct this automatically, as though they were -independent of their creator. He creates a character and gives it life. -He may theorise on a character, just as he might theorise on a person -in real life; and he may theorise wrong, simply because sometimes no -theorising is necessary, and the very fact of a theory being set down -in words may give a false impression; but, as soon as the character -speaks and acts, it speaks and acts in the manner which is true to -itself, and corrects the false impression of the theory, just as though -it were an independent person over whom the author had no control.</p> - -<p>Nearly every critic, at least nearly every English critic,<a id="FNanchor_8" href="#Footnote_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a> in -dealing with <i>Anna Karenina</i>, has found fault with the author -for the character of Vronsky.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span> Anna Karenina, they say, could never -have fallen in love with such an ordinary commonplace man. Vronsky, -one critic has said (in a brilliant article), is only a glorified -“Steerforth.” The answer to this is that if you go to St. Petersburg -or to London, or to any other town you like to mention, you will find -that the men with whom the Anna Kareninas of this world fall in love -are precisely the Vronskys, and no one else, for the simple reason -that Vronsky is a man. He is not a hero, and he is not a villain; he -is not what people call “interesting,” but a man, as masculine as -Anna is feminine, with many good qualities and many limitations, but -above all things alive. Nearly every novelist, with the exception of -Fielding, ends, in spite of himself, by placing his hero either above -or beneath the standard of real life. There are many Vronskys to-day in -St. Petersburg, and for the matter of that, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">mutatis mutandis</i>, in -London. But no novelist except Tolstoy has ever had the power to put -this simple thing, an ordinary man, into a book. Put one of Meredith’s -heroes next to Vronsky, and Meredith’s hero will appear like a figure -dressed up for a fancy-dress ball. Put one of Bourget’s heroes next -to him, with all his psychological documents attached to him, and, in -spite of all the analysis in the world, side by side with Tolstoy’s -human being he will seem but a plaster-cast. Yet, all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span> the time, in -<i>Anna Karenina</i> we feel, as in <i>War and Peace</i>, that the -author is still unsatisfied and hungry, searching for something he has -not yet found; and once again, this time in still sharper outline and -more living colours, he paints an ideal of simplicity which is taking -us towards Ivan Durak in the character of Levin. Into this character, -too, we feel that Tolstoy has put a great deal of himself; and that -Levin, if he is not Tolstoy himself, is what Tolstoy would like to -be. But the loneliness and the void that are round Tolstoy’s mind -are not yet filled; and in that loneliness and in that void we are -sharply conscious of the brooding presence of despair, and the power of -darkness.</p> - -<p>We feel that Tolstoy is afraid of the dark; that to him there is -something wrong in the whole of human life, a radical mistake. He is -conscious that, with all his genius, he has only been able to record -the fact that all that he has found in life is not what he is looking -for, but something irrelevant and unessential; and, at the same time, -that he has not been able to determine the thing in life which is not a -mistake, nor where the true aim, the essential thing, is to be found, -nor in what it consists. It is at this moment that the crisis occurred -in Tolstoy’s life which divides it outwardly into two sections, -although it constitutes no break in his inward evolution. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span> fear of -the dark, of the abyss yawning in front of him, was so strong that he -felt he must rid himself of it at all costs.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I felt terror” (he writes) “of what was awaiting me, though I knew -that this terror was more terrible than my position itself; I could -not wait patiently for the end; my horror of the darkness was too -great, and I felt I must rid myself of it as soon as possible by noose -or bullet.”</p> -</div> - -<p>This terror was not a physical fear of death, but an abstract fear, -arising from the consciousness that the cold mists of decay were -rising round him. By the realisation of the nothingness of everything, -of what Leopardi calls “l’infinita vanità del tutto,” he was brought -to the verge of suicide. And then came the change which he describes -thus in his <i>Confession</i>: “I grew to hate myself; and now all has -become clear to me.” This was the preliminary step of the development -which led him to believe that he had at last found the final and -everlasting truth. “A man has only got not to desire lands or money, -in order to enter into the kingdom of God.” Property, he came to -believe, was the source of all evil. “It is not a law of nature, the -will of God, or a historical necessity; rather a superstition, neither -strong nor terrible, but weak and contemptible.” To free oneself from -this superstition he thought was<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span> as easy as to stamp on a spider. He -desired literally to carry out the teaching of the Gospels, to give up -all he had and to become a beggar.</p> - -<p>This ideal he was not able to carry out in practice. His family, -his wife, opposed him: and he was not strong enough to face the -uncompromising and terrible sayings which speak of a man’s foes being -those of his own household, of father being divided against son, and -household against household, of the dead being left to bury their dead. -He put before him the ideal of the Christian saints, and of the early -Russian martyrs who literally acted upon the saying of Christ: “Whoso -leaveth not house and lands and children for My sake, is not worthy -of Me.” Tolstoy, instead of crushing the spider of property, shut his -eyes to it. He refused to handle money, or to have anything to do with -it; but this does not alter the fact that it was handled for him, so -that he retained its advantages, and this without any of the harassment -which arises from the handling of property. His affairs were, and still -are, managed for him; and he continued to live as he had done before. -No sane person would think of blaming Tolstoy for this. He was not by -nature a St. Francis; he was not by nature a Russian martyr, but the -reverse. What one does resent is not that his practice is inconsistent -with his teaching, but that his teaching is inconsistent with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span> the -ideal which it professes to embody. He takes the Christian teaching, -and tells the world that it is the only hope of salvation, the only key -to the riddle of life. At the same time he neglects the first truth -on which that teaching is based, namely, that man must be born again; -he must humble himself and become as a little child. It is just this -final and absolute surrender that Tolstoy has been unable to make. -Instead of loving God through himself, and loving himself for the God -in him, he hates himself, and refuses to recognise the gifts that God -has given him. It is for this reason that he talks of all his great -work, with the exception of a few stories written for children, as -being worthless. It is for this reason that he ceased writing novels, -and attempted to plough the fields. And the cause of all this is simply -spiritual pride, because he was unwilling “to do his duty in that state -of life to which it had pleased God to call him.” Providence had made -him a novelist and a writer, and not a tiller of the fields. Providence -had made him not only a novelist, but perhaps the greatest novelist -that has ever lived; yet he deliberately turns upon this gift, and -spurns it, and spits upon it, and says that it is worth nothing.</p> - -<p>The question is, has a human being the right to do this, especially if, -for any reasons whatever, he is not able to make the full and complete<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span> -renunciation, and to cut himself off from the world altogether? The -answer is that if this be the foundation of Tolstoy’s teaching, people -have a right to complain of there being something wrong in it. If he -had left the world and become a pilgrim, like one of the early Russian -saints, not a word could have been said; or if he had remained in the -world, preaching the ideals of Christianity and carrying them out -as far as he could, not a word could have been said. But, while he -has not followed the first course, he has preached that the second -course is wrong. He has striven after the ideal of Ivan Durak, but has -been unable to find it, simply because he has been unable to humble -himself; he has re-written the Gospels to suit his own temperament. -The cry of his youth, “I have no modesty,” remains true of him after -his conversion. It is rather that he has no humility; and, instead of -acknowledging that every man is appointed to a definite task, and that -there is no such thing as a superfluous man or a superfluous task, he -has preached that all tasks are superfluous except what he himself -considers to be necessary; instead of preaching the love of the divine -“image of the King,” with which man is stamped like a coin, he has told -us to love the maker of the coin by hatred of His handiwork, quite -regardless of the image with which it is stamped.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span></p> - -<p>This all arises from the dual personality in the man, the conflict -between the titanic “Lucifer” and the other element in him, for ever -searching for the ideal of Ivan Durak. The Titan is consumed with -desire to become Ivan Durak; he preaches to the whole world that they -should do so, but he cannot do it himself. Other proud and titanic -natures have done it; but Tolstoy cannot do what Dante did. Dante was -proud and a Titan, but Dante divested himself of his pride, and seeing -the truth, said: “In la sua volontade è nostra pace.” Nor can Tolstoy -attain to Goethe’s great cry of recognition of the “himmlische Mächte,” -“Wer nie sein Brod mit Thränen ass.” He remains isolated in his high -and terrible solitude:</p> - -<p> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“In the cold starlight where thou canst not climb.”</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>Tourgeniev said of Tolstoy, “He never loved any one but himself.” -Merejkowski, in his <i>Tolstoy as Man and Artist</i>, a creative work -of criticism, is nearer the truth when he says, He has never loved any -man, “<em>not even himself</em>!” But Merejkowski considers that the full -circle of Tolstoy’s spiritual life is not closed. He does not believe -he has found the truth which he has sought for all his life, nor that -he is, as yet, at rest.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“I cannot refuse to believe him” (he writes) “when he speaks of -himself as a pitiable fledgling<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span> fallen from the nest. Yes, however -terrible, it is true. This Titan, with all his vigour, is lying on -his back and wailing in the high grass, as you and I and all the rest -of us. No, he has found nothing; no faith, no God. And his whole -justification is solely in his hopeless prayer, this piercing and -plaintive cry of boundless solitude and dread.... Will he at last -understand that there is no higher or lower in the matter; that the -two seemingly contradictory and equally true paths, leading to one -and the same goal, are not two paths, but one path which merely seems -to be two; and that it is not by going against what is earthly or -fleeing from it, but only through what is earthly, that we can reach -the Divine; that it is not by divesting ourselves of the flesh, but -through the flesh, that we can reach that which is beyond the flesh? -Shall we fear the flesh? we, the children of Him who said, ‘My blood -is drink indeed, and My flesh is meat indeed’; we, whose God is that -God whose Word was made flesh?”<a id="FNanchor_9" href="#Footnote_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a></p> -</div> - -<p>Yet, whatever the mistakes of Tolstoy’s teaching may be, they do not -detract from the moral authority of the man. All his life he has -searched for the truth, and all his life he has said exactly what -he thought; and though he has fearlessly attacked all constituted -authorities, nobody has dared to touch him. He is too great. This is -the first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span> time independent thought has prevailed in Russia; and this -victory is the greatest service he has rendered to Russia <em>as a -man</em>.</p> - -<p>Neither Tolstoy nor Dostoievsky could endure Tourgeniev; their dislike -of him is interesting, and helps us to understand the nature of their -work and of their artistic ideals, and the nature of the distance that -separates the work of Tourgeniev from that of Tolstoy. “I despise the -man,” Tolstoy wrote of Tourgeniev to Fet. Dostoievsky, in his novel -<i>The Possessed</i>,<a id="FNanchor_10" href="#Footnote_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a> draws a scathing portrait of Tourgeniev, in -which every defect of the man is noted but grossly exaggerated. This -portrait is not uninstructive.</p> - -<p>“I read his works in my childhood,” Dostoievsky writes, “I even -revelled in them. They were the delight of my boyhood and my youth. -Then I gradually grew to feel colder towards his writing.” He goes -on to say that Tourgeniev is one of those authors who powerfully -affect one generation, and are then put on the shelf, like the scene -of a theatre. The reason of this dislike, of the inability to admire -Tourgeniev’s work, which was shared by Tolstoy and Dostoievsky, is -perhaps that both these men, each in his own way, reached the absolute -truth of the life which was round them. Tolstoy painted the outer and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span> -the inner life of those with whom he came in contact, in a manner such -as has never been seen before or since; and Dostoievsky painted the -inner life (however fantastic he made the outer machinery of his work) -with an insight that has never been attained before or since. Now -Tourgeniev painted people of the same epoch, the same generation; he -dealt with the same material; he dealt with it as an artist and as a -poet, as a great artist, and as a great poet. But his vision was weak -and narrow compared with that of Tolstoy, and his understanding was -cold and shallow compared with that of Dostoievsky. His characters, -beside those of Tolstoy, seem caricatures, and beside those of -Dostoievsky they are conventional.</p> - -<p>In Europe no foreign writer has ever received more abundant praise from -the most eclectic judges than has Tourgeniev. Flaubert said of him: -“Quel gigantesque bonhomme que ce Scythe!” George Sand said: “Maître, -il nous faut tous aller à votre école.” Taine speaks of Tourgeniev’s -work as being the finest artistic production since Sophocles. -Twenty-five years have now passed since Tourgeniev’s death; and, as M. -Haumant points out in his book, the period of reaction and of doubt, -with regard to his work, has now set in even in Europe. People are -beginning to ask themselves whether Tourgeniev’s pictures are true, -whether the Russians that he describes<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> ever existed, and whether the -praise which was bestowed upon him by his astonished contemporaries all -over Europe was not a gross exaggeration.</p> - -<p>One reason of the abundant and perhaps excessive praise which was -showered on Tourgeniev by European critics is that it was chiefly -through Tourgeniev’s work that Europe discovered Russian literature, -and became aware that novels were being written in which dramatic -issues, as poignant and terrible as those of Greek tragedy, arose -simply out of the clash of certain characters in everyday life. The -simplicity of Russian literature, the naturalness of the characters -in Russian fiction, came like a revelation to Europe; and, as this -revelation came about partly through the work of Tourgeniev, it is -not difficult to understand that he received the praise not only due -to him as an artist, but the praise for all the qualities which are -inseparable from the work of any Russian.</p> - -<p>Heine says somewhere that the man who first came to Germany was -astonished at the abundance of ideas there. “This man,” he says, “was -like the traveller who found a nugget of gold directly he arrived in -El Dorado; but his enthusiasm died down when he discovered that in El -Dorado there was nothing but nuggets of gold.” As it was with ideas -in Germany, according to Heine, so was it with the naturalness of -Tourgeniev. Compared with the work of Tolstoy and that of all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span> other -Russian writers, Tourgeniev’s naturalness is less astonishing, because -he possesses the same qualities that they possess, only in a less -degree.</p> - -<p>When all is said, Tourgeniev was a great poet. What time has not taken -away from him, and what time can never take away, is the beauty of his -language and the poetry in his work. Every Russian schoolboy has read -the works of Tourgeniev before he has left school; and every Russian -schoolboy will probably continue to do so, because Tourgeniev’s prose -remains a classic model of simple, beautiful, and harmonious language, -and as such it can hardly be excelled. Tourgeniev never wrote anything -better than the book which brought him fame, the <i>Sportsman’s -Sketches</i>. In this book nearly the whole of his talent finds -expression. One does not know which to admire more—the delicacy of -the art in choosing and recording his impressions, or the limpid and -musical utterance with which they are recorded. To the reader who only -knows his work through a translation, three-quarters of the beauty -are lost; yet so great is the truth, and so moving is the poetry of -these sketches, that even in translation they will strike a reader as -unrivalled.</p> - -<p>There is, perhaps, nothing so difficult in the world to translate as -stories dealing with Russian peasants. The simplicity and directness -of their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span> speech are the despair of the translator; and to translate -them properly would require literary talent at once as great and as -delicate as the author’s. Mrs. Garnett’s version of Tourgeniev’s work -is admirable; yet in reading the translation of the <i>Sportsman’s -Sketches</i>, and comparing it with the original, one feels that the -task is an almost impossible one. Some writers, Rudyard Kipling for -instance, succeed in conveying to us the impression which is made by -the conversation of men in exotic countries. When Rudyard Kipling gives -us the speech of an Indian, he translates it into simple and biblical -English. There is no doubt this is the right way to deal with the -matter; it is the method which was adopted with perfect success by the -great writers of the eighteenth century, the method of Fielding and -Smollett in dealing with the conversation of simple men. One cannot -help thinking that it is a mistake, in translating the speech of -people like Russian peasants, or Indians, or Greeks, however familiar -the speech may be, to try to render it by the equivalent colloquial -or slang English. For instance, Mrs. Garnett, in translating one of -Tourgeniev’s masterpieces, <i>The Singers</i>, turns the Russian words -“nie vryosh” (Art thou not lying?) by “Isn’t it your humbug?” In the -same story she translates the Russian word “molchat” by the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span> slang -expression “shut up.” Now “shut up” might, in certain circumstances, -be the colloquial equivalent of “molchat”; but the expression conveyed -is utterly false, and it would be better to translate it simply “be -silent”; because to translate the talk of the Russian peasant into -English colloquialisms conveys precisely the same impression, to any -one familiar with the original, which he would receive were he to come -across the talk of a Scotch gillie translated into English cockney -slang.</p> - -<p>This may seem a small point, but in reality it is the chief problem -of all translation, and especially of that translation which deals -with the talk and the ways of simple men. It is therefore of cardinal -importance, when the material in question happens to be the talk of -Russian peasants; and I have seen no translation in which this mistake -is not made. How great the beauty of the original must be is proved by -the fact that even in a translation of this kind one can still discern -it, and that one receives at least a shadow of the impression which -the author intended to convey. If the <i>Sportsman’s Sketches</i> be -the masterpiece of Tourgeniev, he rose to the same heights once more -at the close of his career, when he wrote the incomparable <i>Poems in -Prose</i>. Here once more he touched the particular vibrating string -which was his special<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span> secret, and which thrills and echoes in the -heart with so lingering a sweetness.</p> - -<p>So much for Tourgeniev as a poet. But Tourgeniev was a novelist, -he was famous as a novelist, and must be considered as such. His -three principal novels, <i>A House of Gentlefolk</i>, <i>Fathers -and Sons</i>, and <i>Virgin Soil</i>, laid the foundation of his -European fame. Their merits consist in the ideal character of the -women described, the absence of tricks of mechanism and melodrama, the -naturalness of the sequence of the events, the harmony and proportion -of the whole, and the vividness of the characters. No one can deny that -the characters of Tourgeniev live; they are intensely vivid. Whether -they are true to life is another question. The difference between the -work of Tolstoy and Tourgeniev is this: that Tourgeniev’s characters -are as living as any characters ever are in books, but they belong, -comparatively speaking, to bookland, and are thus conventional; whereas -Tolstoy’s characters belong to life. The fault which Russian critics -find with Tourgeniev’s characters is that they are exaggerated, that -there is an element of caricature in them; and that they are permeated -by the faults of the author’s own character, namely, his weakness, and, -above all, his self-consciousness. M. Haumant points out that the want -of backbone in all Tourgeniev’s characters does not prove that types -of this kind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span> must necessarily be untrue or misleading pictures of the -Russian character, since Tourgeniev was not only a Russian, but an -exceptionally gifted and remarkable Russian. Tourgeniev himself divides -all humanity into two types, the Don Quixotes and the Hamlets. With but -one notable exception, he almost exclusively portrayed the Hamlets. -Feeble, nerveless people, full of ideas, enthusiastic in speech, -capable by their words of exciting enthusiasm and even of creating -belief in themselves, but incapable of action and devoid of will; they -lack both the sublime simplicity and the weakness of Ivan Durak, which -is not weakness but strength, because it proceeds from a profound -goodness.</p> - -<p>To this there is one exception. In <i>Fathers and Sons</i>, Tourgeniev -drew a portrait of the “Lucifer” type, of an unbending and inflexible -will, namely, Bazarov. There is no character in the whole of his work -which is more alive; and nothing that he wrote ever aroused so much -controversy and censure as this figure. Tourgeniev invented the type -of the intellectual Nihilist in fiction. If he was not the first to -invent the word, he was the first to apply it and to give it currency. -The type remains, and will remain, of the man who believes in nothing, -bows to nothing, bends to nothing, and who retains his invincible pride -until death strikes him down. Here again, compared with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span> Nihilists -whom Dostoievsky has drawn in his <i>Possessed</i>, we feel that, so -far as the inner truth of this type is concerned, Tourgeniev’s Bazarov -is a book-character, extraordinarily vivid and living though he be; -and that Dostoievsky’s Nihilists, however outwardly fantastic they may -seem, are inwardly not only truer, but the very quintessence of truth. -Tourgeniev never actually saw the real thing as Tolstoy might have seen -it and described it; nor could he divine by intuition the real thing -as Dostoievsky divined it, whether he saw it or not. But Tourgeniev -evolved a type out of his artistic imagination, and made a living -figure which, to us at any rate, is extraordinarily striking. This -character has proved, however, highly irritating to those who knew the -prototype from which it was admittedly drawn, and considered him not -only a far more interesting character than Tourgeniev’s conception, but -quite different from it. But whatever fault may be found with Bazarov, -none can be found with the description of his death. Here Tourgeniev -reaches his high-water mark as a novelist, and strikes a note of manly -pathos which, by its reserve, suggests an infinity of things all the -more striking for being left unsaid. The death of Bazarov is one of the -great pages of the world’s fiction.</p> - -<p>In <i>Virgin Soil</i>, Tourgeniev attempts to give a sketch of -underground life in Russia—the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span> revolutionary movement, helpless in -face of the ignorance of the masses and the unpreparedness of the -nation at large for any such movement. Here, in the opinion of all -Russian judges, and of most latter-day critics who have knowledge of -the subject, he failed. In describing the official class, although -he does this with great skill and cleverness, he makes a gallery of -caricatures; and the revolutionaries whom he sets before us as types, -however good they may be as fiction, are not the real thing.<a id="FNanchor_11" href="#Footnote_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> -Nevertheless, in spite of Tourgeniev’s limitations, these three books, -<i>A House of Gentlefolk</i>, <i>Fathers and Sons</i>, and <i>Virgin -Soil</i>, must always have a permanent value as reflecting the -atmosphere of the generation which he paints, even though his pictures -be marred by caricatures, and feeble when compared with those of his -rivals.</p> - -<p>Of his other novels, the most important are <i>On the Eve</i>, -<i>Smoke</i>, <i>Spring Waters</i>, and <i>Rudin</i> (the most -striking portrait in his gallery of Hamlets). In <i>Spring Waters</i>, -Tourgeniev’s poetry is allowed free play; the result is therefore an -entrancing masterpiece. With regard to <i>On the Eve</i>, Tolstoy -writes thus:<a id="FNanchor_12" href="#Footnote_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“These are excellent negative characters, the artist and the father. -The rest are not types;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span> even their conception, their position, is not -typical, or they are quite insignificant. That, however, is always -Tourgeniev’s mistake. The girl is hopelessly bad. ‘Ah, how I love -thee!... Her eyelashes were long.’ In general it always surprises -me that Tourgeniev, with his mental powers and poetic sensibility, -should, even in his methods, not be able to refrain from banality. -There is no humanity or sympathy for the characters, but the author -exhibits monsters whom he scolds and does not pity.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Again, in writing of <i>Smoke</i>, Tolstoy says:<a id="FNanchor_13" href="#Footnote_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a></p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“About <i>Smoke</i>, I think that the strength of poetry lies in -love; and the direction of that strength depends on character. -Without strength of love there is no poetry; but strength falsely -directed—the result of the poet’s having an unpleasant, weak -character—creates dislike. In <i>Smoke</i> there is hardly any love -of anything, and very little pity; there is only love of light and -playful adultery; and therefore the poetry of that novel is repulsive.”</p> -</div> - -<p>These criticisms, especially the latter, may be said to sum up the case -of the “Advocatus Diaboli” with regard to Tourgeniev. I have quoted -them because they represent what many educated Russians feel at the -present day about a great part of Tourgeniev’s work, however keenly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span> -they appreciate his poetical sensibility and his gift of style. The -view deserves to be pointed out, because all that can be said in praise -of Tourgeniev has not only been expressed with admirable nicety and -discrimination by widely different critics of various nationalities, -but their praise is constantly being quoted; whereas the other side of -the question is seldom mentioned. Yet in the case of <i>On the Eve</i>, -Tolstoy’s criticism is manifestly unfair. Tolstoy was unable by his -nature to do full justice to Tourgeniev. Perhaps the most impartial -and acute criticism of Tourgeniev’s work that exists is to be found in -M. de Vogüé’s <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Roman Russe</i>. M. de Vogüé is not indeed blind to -Tourgeniev’s defects; he recognises the superiority both of Tolstoy -and Dostoievsky, but he nevertheless gives Tourgeniev his full meed of -appreciation.</p> - -<p>The lapse of years has only emphasised the elements of banality and -conventionality which are to be found in Tourgeniev’s work. He is a -masterly landscape painter; but even here he is not without convention. -His landscapes are always orthodox Russian landscapes, and are seldom -varied. He seems never to get face to face with nature, after the -manner of Wordsworth; he never gives us any elemental pictures of -nature, such as Gorky succeeds in doing in a phrase; but he rings the -changes on delicate arrangements of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span> wood, cloud, mist and water, vague -backgrounds and diaphanous figures, after the manner of Corot. This -does not detract from the beauty of his pictures, and our admiration -for them is not lessened; but all temptation to exaggerate its merits -vanishes when we turn from his work to that of stronger masters.</p> - -<p>To sum up, it may be said that the picture of Russia obtained from -the whole of Tourgeniev’s work has been incomplete, but it is not -inaccurate; and such as it is, with all its faults, it is invaluable. -In 1847, Bielinski, in writing to Tourgeniev, said: “It seems to me -that you have little or no creative genius. Your vocation is to depict -reality.” This criticism remained true to the end of Tourgeniev’s -career, but it omits his greatest gift, his poetry, the magical echoes, -the “unheard melodies,” which he sets vibrating in our hearts by the -music of his utterance. The last of Tourgeniev’s poems in prose is -called “The Russian Language.” It runs as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“In days of doubt, in the days of burdensome musing over the fate -of my country, thou alone art my support and my mainstay, oh great, -mighty, truthful, and unfettered Russian language! Were it not for -thee, how should I not fall into despair at the sight of all that is -being done at home? But how can I believe that such a tongue was given -to any but a great people?”</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span></p> - -<p>No greater praise can be given to Tourgeniev than to say that he was -worthy of his medium, and that no Russian prose writer ever handled the -great instrument of his inheritance with a more delicate touch or a -surer execution.</p> - -<p>When Tourgeniev was dying, he wrote to Tolstoy and implored him to -return to literature. “That gift,” he wrote, “came whence all comes to -us. Return to your literary work, great writer of our Russian land!”</p> - -<p>All through Tourgeniev’s life, in spite of his frequent quarrels with -Tolstoy, he never ceased to admire the works of his rival. Tourgeniev -had the gift of admiration. Tolstoy is absolutely devoid of it. The -“Lucifer” spirit in him refuses to bow down before Shakespeare or -Beethoven, simply because it is incapable of bending at all. To justify -this want, this incapacity to admire the great masterpieces of the -world, Tolstoy wrote a book called <i>What is Art?</i> in which he -condemned theories he had himself enunciated years before. In this, -and in a book on Shakespeare, he treats all art, the very greatest, -as if it were in the same category with that of æsthetes who confine -themselves to prattling of “Art for Art’s sake.” Beethoven he brushes -aside because, he says, such music can only appeal to specialists. -“What proportion of the world’s population,” he asks, “have ever heard -the Ninth Symphony or seen<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span> ‘King Lear’? And how many of them enjoyed -the one or the other?” If these things be the highest art, and yet the -bulk of men live without them, and do not need them, then the highest -art lacks all claim to such respect as Tolstoy is ready to accord to -art. In commenting on this, <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Aylmer Maude writes: “The case of the -specialists, when Tolstoy calls in question the merits of ‘King Lear’ -or of the Ninth Symphony, is an easy one.”</p> - -<p>But the fallacy does not lie here. The fallacy lies in thinking -the matter is a case for specialists at all. It is not a case for -specialists. Beethoven’s later quartettes may be a case for the -specialist, just as the obscurer passages in Shakespeare may be a -case for the specialist. This does not alter the fact that the whole -of the German nation, and multitudes of people outside Germany, meet -together to hear Beethoven’s symphonies played, and enjoy them. It does -not alter the fact that Shakespeare’s plays are translated into every -language and enjoyed, and, when they are performed, are enjoyed by -the simplest and the most uneducated people. The highest receipts are -obtained at the Théâtre Français on holidays and feast days, when the -plays of Molière are given. Tolstoy leaves out the fact that very great -art, such as that of Homer, Shakespeare, Dante, Milton, Beethoven, -Mozart, appeals at the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span> same time, and possibly for different reasons, -to the highly trained specialist and to the most uncultivated -ignoramus. This, <abbr title="doctor">Dr.</abbr> Johnson points out, is the great merit of Bunyan’s -<i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i>: the most cultivated man cannot find anything -to praise more highly, and a child knows nothing more amusing. This is -also true of <i>Paradise Lost</i>, an appreciation of which is held in -England to be the highest criterion of scholarship. And <i>Paradise -Lost</i>, translated into simple prose, is sold in cheap editions, -with coloured pictures, all over Russia,<a id="FNanchor_14" href="#Footnote_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a> and greedily read by the -peasants, who have no idea that it is a poem, but enjoy it as a tale -of fantastic adventure and miraculous events. It appeals at the same -time to their religious feeling and to their love of fairy tales, and -impresses them by a certain elevation in the language (just as the -chants in church impress them) which they unconsciously feel does them -good.</p> - -<p>It is this inability to admire which is the whole defect of Tolstoy, -and it arises from his indomitable pride, which is the strength -of his character, and causes him to tower like a giant over all -his contemporaries. Therefore, in reviewing his whole work and his -whole life, and in reviewing it in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span> connection with that of his -contemporaries, one comes to this conclusion. If Tolstoy, being as -great as he is, has this great limitation, we can only repeat the -platitude that no genius, however great, is without limitations; no -ruby without a flaw. Were it otherwise—Had there been combined with -Tolstoy’s power and directness of vision and creative genius, the large -love and the childlike simplicity of Dostoievsky—we should have had, -united in one man, the complete expression of the Russian race; that is -to say, we should have had a complete man—which is impossible.</p> - -<p>Tourgeniev, on the other hand, is full to the brim of the power of -admiration and appreciation which Tolstoy lacks; but then he also -lacks Tolstoy’s strength and power. Dostoievsky has a power different -from Tolstoy’s, but equal in scale, and titanic. He has a power of -admiration, an appreciation wider and deeper than Tourgeniev’s, and -the humility of a man who has descended into hell, who has been face -to face with the sufferings and the agonies of humanity and the vilest -aspects of human nature; who, far from losing his faith in the divine, -has detected it in every human being, however vile, and in every -circumstance, however hideous; and who in dust and ashes has felt -himself face to face with God. Yet, in spite of all this, Dostoievsky -is far from being the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span> complete expression of the Russian genius, or -a complete man. His limitations are as great as Tolstoy’s; and no one -was ever more conscious of them than himself. They do not concern us -here. What does concern us is that in modern Russian literature, in the -literature of this century, leaving the poets out of the question, the -two great figures, the two great columns which support the temple of -Russian literature, are Tolstoy and Dostoievsky. Tourgeniev’s place is -inside that temple; there he has a shrine and an altar which are his -own, which no one can dispute with him, and which are bathed in serene -radiance and visited by shy visions and voices of haunting loveliness. -But neither as a writer nor as a man can he be called the great -representative of even half the Russian genius; for he complements the -genius of neither Tolstoy nor Dostoievsky. He possesses in a minor -degree qualities which they both possessed; and the qualities which -are his and his only, exquisite as they are, are not of the kind which -belong to the greatest representatives of a nation or of a race.</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_7" href="#FNanchor_7" class="label">[7]</a> <i>Life of Tolstoy</i>, p. 38.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_8" href="#FNanchor_8" class="label">[8]</a> Matthew Arnold is a notable exception.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_9" href="#FNanchor_9" class="label">[9]</a> <i>Tolstoy as Man and Artist</i>, pp. 93, 95. This passage -is translated from the Russian edition.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_10" href="#FNanchor_10" class="label">[10]</a> It should be said that this portrait is so unfair, and -yet contains elements of truth so acutely observed, that for some -people it spoils the whole book.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_11" href="#FNanchor_11" class="label">[11]</a> With the exception of Marianna, one of his most beautiful -and noble characters.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_12" href="#FNanchor_12" class="label">[12]</a> <i>Life</i>, p. 189.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_13" href="#FNanchor_13" class="label">[13]</a> <i>Life</i>, p. 312.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_14" href="#FNanchor_14" class="label">[14]</a> The popular edition of <i>Paradise Lost</i> in Russian -prose, with rough coloured pictures, is published by the Tipografia, T. -D. Sitin, Piatnitzkaia Oolitza, Moscow.</p> - -</div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_V">CHAPTER V<br /><span class="small">THE PLACE OF TOURGENIEV</span></h2> -</div> - - -<p>In the preceding I have tried very briefly to point out the state of -the barometer of public opinion (the barometer of the average educated -man and not of any exclusive clique) with regard to Tourgeniev’s -reputation in Russia at the present day.</p> - -<p>That and no more. I have not devoted a special chapter in this book -to Tourgeniev for the reasons I have already stated: namely, that his -work is better known in England than most other Russian classics, and -that admirable appreciations of his work exist already, written by -famous critics, such as <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Henry James and M. Melchior de Vogüé. There -is in England, among people who care for literature and who study the -literature of Europe, a perfectly definite estimate of Tourgeniev. It -is for this reason that I confined myself to trying to elucidate what -the average Russian thinks to-day about Tourgeniev compared with other -Russian writers, and to noticing any changes which have come about with -regard to the estimate of his work in Russia and in Europe during the -last twenty years. I thought this was sufficient.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span></p> - -<p>But I now realise from several able criticisms on my study of Tolstoy -and Tourgeniev when it appeared in the <i>Quarterly Review</i>, that -I had laid myself open to be misunderstood. It was taken for granted -in several quarters not only that I underrated Tourgeniev as a writer, -but that I wished to convey the impression that his reputation was a -bubble that had burst. Nothing was farther from my intention than this. -And here lies the great danger of trying to talk of any foreign writer -from the point of view of that writer’s country and not from that of -your own country. You are instantly misunderstood. For instance, if you -say Alfred de Musset is not so much admired now in France as he used -to be in the sixties, the English reader, who may only recently have -discovered Alfred de Musset, and, indeed, may be approaching French -poetry as a whole for the first time, at once retorts: “There is a man -who is depreciating one of France’s greatest writers!”</p> - -<p>Now what I wish to convey with regard to Tourgeniev is simply this:</p> - -<p>Firstly, that although he is and always will remain a Russian classic, -he is not, rightly or wrongly, so enthusiastically admired as he used -to be: new writers have risen since his time (not necessarily better -ones, but men who have opened windows on undreamed-of vistas); and -not only this,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span> but one of his own contemporaries, Dostoievsky, has -been brought into a larger and clearer light of fame than he enjoyed -in his lifetime, owing to the dissipation of the mists of political -prejudices and temporary and local polemics, differences, quarrels and -controversies.</p> - -<p>But the English reader has, as a general rule, never got farther than -Tourgeniev. He is generally quite unacquainted with the other Russian -classics; and so when it is said that there are others greater than -he—Dostoievsky and Gogol, for instance,—the English reader thinks an -attempt is being made to break a cherished and holy image. And if he -admires Tourgeniev,—which, if he likes Russian literature at all he is -almost sure to do,—it makes him angry.</p> - -<p>Secondly, I wish to say that owing to the generally prevailing limited -view of the educated intellectual Englishman as to the field of -Russian literature as a whole, I do think he is inclined to overrate -the genius and position of Tourgeniev in Russian literature, great as -they are. There is, I think, an exaggerated cult for Tourgeniev among -intellectual Englishmen.<a id="FNanchor_15" href="#Footnote_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a> The case of Tennyson seems to me to afford -a very close parallel to that of Tourgeniev.</p> - -<p><abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Gosse pointed out not long ago in a subtle<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span> and masterly article -that Tennyson, although we were now celebrating his centenary, had not -reached that moment when a poet is rapturously rediscovered by a far -younger generation than his own, but that he had reached that point -when the present generation felt no particular excitement about his -work. This seems to me the exact truth about Tourgeniev’s reputation -in Russia at the present day. Everybody has read him, and everybody -will always read him because he is a classic and because he has written -immortal things, but now, in the year 1909, there is no particular -excitement about <i>Fathers and Sons</i> in Russia: just as now there -is no particular excitement about the “Idylls of the King” or “In -Memoriam” in England to-day. Tourgeniev has not yet been rediscovered.</p> - -<p>Of course, there are some critics who in “the fearless old fashion” say -boldly that Tennyson’s reputation is dead; that he exists no longer, -and that we need not trouble to mention him. I read some such sweeping -pronouncement not long ago by an able journalist. There are doubtless -Russian critics who say the same about Tourgeniev. As to whether they -are right or wrong, I will not bother myself or my readers, but I do -wish to make it as clear as daylight that I myself hold no such opinion -either with regard to Tourgeniev or to Tennyson.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span></p> - -<p>I believe Tennyson to have written a great quantity of immortal and -magnificently beautiful verse. I believe that Tennyson possesses an -enduring throne in the Temple of English poets. I believe Tourgeniev to -have written a great quantity of immortal and inexpressibly beautiful -prose, and I believe that he will hold an enduring seat in the Temple -of Russian literature. I think this is clear. But supposing a Russian -critic were to write on the English literature and the English taste -of the present day, and supposing he were to say, “Of course, as we -Russians all feel, there is only one English poet in the English -literature of the last hundred years, and that is Tennyson. Tennyson is -the great and only representative of English art; the only writer who -has expressed the English soul.” We should then suspect he had never -studied the works of Wordsworth, Shelley, Byron, Keats, Coleridge, -Browning and Swinburne. Well, this, it seems to me, is exactly how -Tourgeniev is treated in England. All I wished to point out was that -the point of view of a Russian was necessarily different, owing to -his larger field of vision and to the greater extent and depth of his -knowledge, and to his closer communion with the work of his national -authors.</p> - -<p>But, as I have said, it was taken for granted by some people that I -wished to show that Tourgeniev was not a classic. I will therefore, at -the risk of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span> wearying my readers, repeat—with as much variation as I -can muster—what I consider to be some of Tourgeniev’s special claims -to enduring fame.</p> - -<p>I have said he was a great poet; but the words seem bare and dead when -one considers the peculiar nature of the shy and entrancing poetry -that is in Tourgeniev’s work. He has the magic that water gives to the -reflected images of trees, hills and woods; he touches the ugly facts -of life, softens and transfigures them so that they lose none of their -reality, but gain a majesty and a mystery that comes from beyond the -world, just as the moonlight softens and transfigures the wrinkled -palaces and decaying porticoes of Venice, hiding what is sordid, -heightening the beauty of line, and giving a quality of magic to every -stately building, to each delicate pillar and chiselled arch.</p> - -<p>Then there is in his work a note of wistful tenderness that steals into -the heart and fills it with an incommunicable pleasureable sadness, as -do the songs you hear in Russia on dark summer nights in the villages, -or, better still, on the broad waters of some huge silent river,—songs -aching with an ecstasy of homesickness, songs which are something -half-way between the whining sadness of Oriental music and the -rippling plaintiveness of Irish and Scotch folk-song; songs that are -imperatively melodious, but strange to us in their rhythm, constantly -changing yet subordinated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span> to definite law, varying indeed with an -invariable law; songs whose notes, without being definitely sharp or -flat, seem a little bit higher, or a shade lower than you expect, and -in which certain notes come over and over again with an insistent -appeal, a heartbreaking iteration, and an almost intolerable pathos; -songs which end abruptly and suddenly, so that you feel that they are -meant to begin again at once and to go on for ever.</p> - -<p>This is how Tourgeniev’s poetical quality—as manifested in his -<i>Sportsman’s Sketches</i>, his <i>Poems in Prose</i>, and in many -other of his works—strikes me. But I doubt if any one unacquainted -with the Russian language would derive such impressions, for it is -above all things Tourgeniev’s language—the words he uses and the way -in which he uses them—that is magical. Every sentence is a phrase -of perfect melody; limpid, simple and sensuous. And all this must -necessarily half disappear in a translation, however good.</p> - -<p>But then Tourgeniev is not only a poet. He is a great novelist and -something more than a great novelist. He has recorded for all time the -atmosphere of a certain epoch. He has done for Russia what Trollope -did for England: he has exactly conveyed the atmosphere and the tone -of the fifties. The characters of Trollope and Tourgeniev are excelled -by those of other writers—and I do not mean to put Tourgeniev<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span> on -the level of Trollope, because Tourgeniev is an infinitely greater -writer and an artist of an altogether higher order—; but for giving -the general picture and atmosphere of England during the fifties, -I do not believe any one has excelled Trollope; and for giving the -general atmosphere of the fifties in Russia, of a certain class, I -do not believe any one—with the possible exception of Aksakov, the -Russian Trollope,—has excelled what Tourgeniev did in his best known -books, <i>Fathers and Sons</i>, <i>Virgin Soil</i>, and <i>A House of -Gentlefolk</i>.</p> - -<p>Then, of course, Tourgeniev has gifts of shrewd characterisation, the -power of creating delightful women, gifts of pathos and psychology, and -artistic gifts of observation and selection, the whole being always -illumined and refined by the essential poetry of his temperament, and -the magical manner in which, like an inspired conductor leading an -orchestra of delicate wood and wind instruments, he handles the Russian -language. But when it comes to judging who has interpreted more truly -Russian life as a whole, and who has gazed deepest into the Russian -soul and expressed most truly and fully what is there, then I can but -repeat that I think he falls far short of Tolstoy, in the one case, -and of Dostoievsky, in the other. Judged as a whole, I think he is far -excelled, for different reasons, by Tolstoy, Dostoievsky, and by Gogol, -who surpasses him<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span> immeasurably alike in imagination, humour and truth. -I have endeavoured to explain why in various portions of this book. I -will not add anything further here, and I only hope that I have made it -sufficiently clear that although I admire other Russian writers more -than Tourgeniev, I am no image-breaker; and that although I worship -more fervently at other altars, I never for a moment intended either to -deny or to depreciate the authentic ray of divine light that burns in -Tourgeniev’s work.<a id="FNanchor_16" href="#Footnote_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a></p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_15" href="#FNanchor_15" class="label">[15]</a> See, for instance, <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Frank Harris in his <i>Shakespeare -the Man: His Tragedy</i>. See footnote, p. 124.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_16" href="#FNanchor_16" class="label">[16]</a> The most striking instance I have come across lately of -the cult for Tourgeniev in England is in <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Frank Harris’ remarkable -book on Shakespeare. He illustrates his thesis that Shakespeare could -not create a manly character, by saying that Shakespeare could not have -drawn a <i>Bazarov</i> or a <i>Marianna</i>. Leaving the thesis out of -the discussion, it is to me almost incredible that any one could think -Tourgeniev’s characters manly, compared with those of Shakespeare. -Tourgeniev played a hundred variations on the theme of the minor -Hamlet. He painted a whole gallery of little Hamlets. <i>Bazarov</i> -attains his strength at the expense of intellectual nihilism, but he -is a neuropath compared with Mercutio. And <i>Bazarov</i> is the only -one of Tourgeniev’s characters (and Tourgeniev’s acutest critics agree -with this,—see Brückner and Vogüé) that has strength. Tourgeniev could -no more have created a Falstaff than he could have flown. Where are -these manly characters of Tourgeniev? Who are they? Indeed a Russian -critic lately pointed out, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">à propos</i> of Tchekov, that the whole -of Russian politics, literature, and art, during the latter half of -the nineteenth century, suffered from the misfortune of there being so -many such Hamlets and so few Fortinbrases. I am convinced that had <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> -Harris been a Russian, or had Tourgeniev been an Englishman, <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Harris -would not have held these views.</p> - -</div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VI">CHAPTER VI<br /><span class="small">DOSTOIEVSKY</span></h2> -</div> - - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“In nobler books we are moved with something like the emotions of -life; and this emotion is very variously provoked. We are moved when -Levine labours in the field, when André sinks beyond emotion, when -Richard Feverel and Lucy Desborough meet beside the river, when -Antony, not cowardly, puts off his helmet, when Kent has infinite pity -on the dying Lear, when in Dostoiefsky’s <i>Despised and Rejected</i>, -the uncomplaining hero drains his cup of suffering and virtue. These -are notes which please the great heart of man.”</p> - -<p class="right"> -<span class="smcap">R. L. Stevenson</span>, <i>Across the Plains</i><br /> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“Raskolnikoff (<i>Crime and Punishment</i>) is easily the greatest -book I have read in ten years.... I divined ... the existence of a -certain impotence in many minds of to-day which prevents them from -living in a book or a character and keeps them afar off, spectators -of a puppet show. To such I suppose the book may seem empty in the -centre; to the others it is a room, a house of life, into which they -themselves enter, and are tortured and purified....</p> - -<p>“Another has been translated—<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Humiliés et offensés</i>. It is even -more incoherent than <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Crime et le Châtiment</i>, but breathes -much of <em>the same lovely goodness</em>.”<a id="FNanchor_17" href="#Footnote_17" class="fnanchor">[17]</a></p> - -<p class="right"> -<span class="smcap">R. L. Stevenson</span>, <i>Letters</i><br /> -</p> -</div> - - -<h3>I<br /><span class="smcap">Introductory</span></h3> - -<p>In the autumn of 1897 I was staying in the South of Russia at the house -of a gentleman who has played no unimportant part in Russian politics. -We were sitting one evening at tea, a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span> party of nearly thirty people -round the table, consisting of country gentlemen, neighbours and -friends. The village doctor was present: he was an ardent Tolstoyist, -and not only an admirer of Tolstoy’s genius, but a disciple, and a -believer in his religious teaching. He had been talking on this subject -for some time, and expressing his hero-worship in emphatic terms, when -the son of my host, a boy at school, only seventeen years of age, yet -familiar with the literature of seven languages, a writer, moreover, of -English and Russian verse, fired up and said:</p> - -<p>“In fifty years’ time we Russians shall blush with shame to think that -we gave Tolstoy such fulsome admiration, when we had at the same time -a genius like Dostoievsky, the latchet of whose shoes Tolstoy is not -worthy to unloose.”</p> - -<p>A few months after this I read an article on Dostoievsky in one of -the literary weeklies in England, in which the writer stated that -Dostoievsky was a mere <i>fueilletonist</i>, a concocter of melodrama, -to be ranked with Eugène Sue and Xavier de Montépin. I was struck at -the time by the divergence between English and Russian views on this -subject. I was amazed by the view of the English critic in itself; -but the reason that such a view could be expressed at all is not far -to seek, since there is at this moment no complete translation of -Dostoievsky’s works in England, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span> no literary translation of the -same. Only one of his books, <i>Crime and Punishment</i>, is known at -all, and the rest of them are difficult even to obtain in the English -language.</p> - -<p>However this may be, at the present time Dostoievsky’s fame in -Russia is every day becoming more universally and more emphatically -recognised. The present generation are inclined to consider him the -greatest of all their novelists; and although they as a rule, with the -critic Merejkowski, put him equal with Tolstoy as one of the two great -pillars which uphold the Temple of Russian literature, they are for -the most part agreed in thinking that he was a unique product, a more -startling revelation and embodiment of genius, a greater elemental -force, than Tolstoy or any other Russian writer of fiction. In fact, -they hold the same view about him that we do with regard to Shelley in -our poetical literature. We may not think that Shelley is a greater -poet than Keats, Wordsworth, Coleridge or Byron, but he certainly is -a more exceptional incarnation of poetical genius. We can imagine -poets like Keats arising again,—one nearly akin to him and almost -equally exquisite did appear in the shape of Tennyson. We can imagine -there being other writers who would attain to Wordsworth’s simplicity -and communion with nature, but Shelley has as yet been without<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span> kith -or kindred, without mate or equal, in the whole range of the world’s -literary history. He does not appear to us like a plant that grows -among others, differing from them only in being more beautiful and -striking, which is true even of poets like Shakespeare, Dante and -Goethe, who reveal in the highest degree qualities which other poets -possess in a lesser degree, and complete and fulfil what the others aim -at and only partially achieve; but Shelley is altogether different in -kind: he aims at and achieves something which is beyond the range and -beyond the ken of other poets. It is as though he were not a man at -all, but an embodiment of certain elemental forces.</p> - -<p>So it is with Dostoievsky. And for this reason those who admire him do -so passionately and extravagantly. It must not be thought that they -do not discern his faults, his incompleteness, and his limitations, -but the positive qualities that he possesses seem to them matchless, -and so precious, so rare, so tremendous, that they annihilate all -petty criticism. The example of Shelley may again serve us here. -Only a pedant, in the face of such flights of genius as “The Cloud,” -the “Ode to the West Wind,” “The Sensitive Plant,” or that high -pageant of grief, fantasy, of “thoughts that breathe and words that -burn,”—“Adonais,”—would apply a magnifying glass to such poems and -complain of the occasional lapses<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span> of style or of the mistakes in -grammar which may be found in them. These poems may be full of trivial -lapses of this kind, but such matters are of small account when a -poet has evoked for us a vision of what dwells beyond the veil of the -senses, and struck chords of a music which has the power and the wonder -of a miracle.</p> - -<p>With Dostoievsky the case is somewhat but not in all respects similar. -He possesses a certain quality which is different in kind from those of -any other writer, a power of seeming to get nearer to the unknown, to -what lies beyond the flesh, which is perhaps the secret of his amazing -strength; and, besides this, he has certain great qualities which -other writers, and notably other Russian writers, possess also; but he -has them in so far higher a degree that when seen with other writers -he annihilates them. The combination of this difference in kind and -this difference in degree makes something so strong and so tremendous, -that it is not to be wondered at when we find many critics saying -that Dostoievsky is not only the greatest of all Russian writers, -but one of the greatest writers that the world has ever seen. I am -not exaggerating when I say that such views are held; for instance, -Professor Brückner, a most level-headed critic, in his learned and -exhaustive survey of Russian literature, says that it is not in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span> -<i>Faust</i>, but rather in <i>Crime and Punishment</i>, that the whole -grief of mankind takes hold of us.</p> - -<p>Even making allowance for the enthusiasm of his admirers, it is true -to say that almost any Russian judge of literature at the present day -would place Dostoievsky as being equal to Tolstoy and immeasurably -above Tourgeniev; in fact, the ordinary Russian critic at the present -day no more dreams of comparing Tourgeniev with Dostoievsky, than it -would occur to an Englishman to compare Charlotte Yonge with Charlotte -Brontë.</p> - -<p>Dostoievsky’s fame came late, although his first book, <i>Poor -Folk</i>, made a considerable stir, and the publication of his <i>Crime -and Punishment</i> ensured his popularity. But when I say “fame,” I -mean the universal recognition of him by the best and most competent -judges. This recognition is now an accomplished fact in Russia and also -in Germany. The same cannot be said positively of France, although -his books are for the most part well translated into French, and have -received the warmest and the most acute appreciation at the hands of -a French critic, namely, M. de Vogüé in <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Roman Russe</i>.<a id="FNanchor_18" href="#Footnote_18" class="fnanchor">[18]</a> -In England, Dostoievsky cannot be said to be known at all, since the -translations of his works are not only inadequate, but scarce and -difficult to obtain, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span> it is possible to come across the most -amazing judgments pronounced on them by critics whose judgment on -other subjects is excellent.<a id="FNanchor_19" href="#Footnote_19" class="fnanchor">[19]</a> The reason of this tardy recognition -of Dostoievsky in his own country is that he was one of those men -whose innate sense of fairness and hatred of cant prevent them from -whole-heartedly joining a political party and swallowing its tenets -indiscriminately, even when some of these tenets are nonsensical and -iniquitous. He was one of those men who put truth and love higher than -any political cause, and can fight for such a cause only when the -leaders of it, in practice as well as in theory, never deviate from the -one or the other. He was between two fires: the Government considered -him a revolutionary, and the revolutionaries thought him a retrograde; -because he refused to be blind to the merits of the Government, such -as they were, and equally refused to be blind to the defects of -the enemies of the Government. He therefore attacked not only the -Government, but the Government’s enemies; and when he attacked, it was -with thunderbolts. The Liberals never forgave him this. Dostoievsky -was unjustly condemned to spend four years in penal servitude -for a political crime; for having taken part in a revolutionary -propaganda.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span> He returned from Siberia a Slavophil, and, I will not say -a Conservative, as the word is misleading; but a man convinced not -only of the futility of revolution, but also of the worthlessness of a -great part of the revolutionaries. Nor did the Liberals ever forgive -him this. They are only just beginning to do so now. Moreover, in one -of his most powerful books, <i>The Possessed</i>, he draws a scathing -picture of all the flotsam and jetsam of revolution, and not only of -the worthless hangers-on who are the parasites of any such movement, -but he reveals the decadence and worthlessness of some of the men, who -by their dominating character played leading parts and were popular -heroes. Still less did the Liberals forgive him this book; and even -now, few Liberal writers are fair towards it. Again, Dostoievsky was, -as I shall show later, by nature an antagonist of Socialism and a -hater of materialism; and since all the leading men among the Liberals -of his time were either one or the other, if not both, Dostoievsky -aroused the enmity of the whole Liberal camp, by attacking not only its -parasites but its leaders, men of high principle such as Bielinsky, -who were obviously sincere and deserving of the highest consideration -and respect. One can imagine a similar situation in England if at -the present time there were an autocratic government, a backward and -ignorant peasantry,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span> and a small and Liberal movement carried on by -a minority of extremely intellectual men, headed, let us say, by <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> -Bernard Shaw, Lord Morley, Professor Raleigh, and Sir J. J. Thomson. -I purposely take men of widely different opinions, because in a -country where there is a fight going on for a definite thing, such as -a Constitution, there is a moment when men, who under another régime -would be split up into Liberals and Conservatives, are necessarily -grouped together in one big Liberal camp. Now, let us suppose that the -men who were carrying on this propaganda for reform were undergoing -great sacrifices; let us likewise suppose them to be Socialists and -materialists to the core. Then suppose there should appear a novelist -of conspicuous power, such as George Meredith or <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Thomas Hardy or -<abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> H. G. Wells, who by some error was sent to Botany Bay for having -been supposed to be mixed up with a revolutionary propaganda, and on -his return announced that he was an Anti-Revolutionary, violently -attacked <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Shaw, wrote a book in which he caricatured him, and -drew a scathing portrait of all his disciples,—especially of the -less intelligent among them. One can imagine how unpopular such an -author would be in Liberal circles. This was the case of Dostoievsky -in Russia. It is only fair to add that his genius<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span> has now obtained -full recognition, even at the hands of Liberals, though they still -may not be able to tolerate his book, <i>The Possessed</i>. But -considering the magnitude of his genius, this recognition has been, on -the whole, a tardy one. For instance, even in so valuable a book as -Prince Kropotkin’s <i>Ideals and Realities in Russian Literature</i>, -Dostoievsky receives inadequate treatment and scanty appreciation. -On the other hand, in Merejkowsky’s <i>Tolstoy and Dostoievsky</i>, -Merejkowsky, who is also a Liberal, praises Dostoievsky with complete -comprehension and with brilliance of thought and expression.</p> - - -<h3>II<br /><span class="smcap">Dostoievsky’s Life</span></h3> - - -<p>Dostoievsky was the son of a staff-surgeon and a tradesman’s daughter. -He was born in a charity hospital, the “Maison de Dieu,” at Moscow, in -1821. He was, as he said, a member of a stray family. His father and -five children lived in a flat consisting of two rooms and a kitchen. -The nursery of the two boys, Michael and Fedor, consisted of a small -part of the entrance hall, which was partitioned off. His family -belonged to the lowest ranks of the nobility, to that stratum of -society which supplied the bureaucracy with its minor<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span> public servants. -The poverty surrounding his earliest years was to last until the day of -his death.</p> - -<p>Some people are, as far as money is concerned, like a negative -pole—money seems to fly away from them, or rather, when it comes to -them, to be unable to find any substance it can cleave to. Dostoievsky -was one of these people; he never knew how much money he had, and when -he had any, however little, he gave it away. He was what the French -call a <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">panier percé</i>: money went through him as through a sieve. -And however much money he had, it was never he but his friends who -benefited by it.</p> - -<p>He received his earliest education at a small school in Moscow, -where a schoolmaster who taught Russian inspired him and his brother -with a love of literature, of Pushkin’s poetry and other writers, -introduced him also to the works of Walter Scott, and took him to see a -performance of Schiller’s <i>Robbers</i>. When his preliminary studies -were ended, he was sent with his brother to a school of military -engineers at St. Petersburg. Here his interest in literature, which -had been first aroused by coming into contact with Walter Scott’s -works, was further developed by his discovery of Balzac, George Sand, -and Homer. Dostoievsky developed a passionate love of literature and -poetry. His favourite author<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span> was Gogol. He left this school in 1843 at -the age of twenty-three, with the rank of sub-lieutenant.</p> - -<p>His first success in literature was his novel, <i>Poor Folk</i> -(published in 1846), which he possibly began to write while he was -still at school. He sent this work to a review and awaited the result, -utterly hopeless of its being accepted. One day, at four o’clock in the -morning, just when Dostoievsky was despairing of success and thinking -of suicide, Nekrasov the poet, and Grigorovitch the critic, came to him -and said: “Do you understand yourself what you have written? To have -written such a book you must have possessed the direct inspiration of -an artist.”</p> - -<p>This, said Dostoievsky, was the happiest moment of his life. The book -was published in Nekrasov’s newspaper, and was highly praised on all -sides. He thus at once made a name in literature. But as though Fate -wished to lose no time in proving to him that his life would be a -series of unending struggles, his second story, <i>The Double</i>, was -a failure, and his friends turned from him, feeling that they had made -a mistake. From that time onward, his literary career was a desperate -battle, not only with poverty but also with public opinion, and with -political as well as with literary critics.</p> - -<p>Dostoievsky suffered all his life from epilepsy. It has been said that -this disease was brought on<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span> by his imprisonment. This is not true: the -complaint began in his childhood, and one of his biographers gives a -hint of its origin: “It dates back,” he writes, “to his earliest youth, -and is connected with a <em>tragic event</em> in their family life.” -This sentence affords us an ominous glimpse into the early years of -Dostoievsky, for it must indeed have been a tragic event which caused -him to suffer from epileptic fits throughout his life.</p> - -<p>In 1849 came the most important event in Dostoievsky’s life. From -1840 to 1847 there was in St. Petersburg a group of young men who met -together to read and discuss the Liberal writers such as Fourier, Louis -Blanc and Prudhon. Towards 1847 these circles widened, and included -officers and journalists: they formed a club under the leadership of -Petrachevsky, a former student, the author of a Dictionary of Foreign -Terms. The club consisted, on the one hand, of certain men, followers -of the Decembrists of 1825, who aimed at the emancipation of the serfs -and the establishment of a Liberal Constitution; and, on the other -hand, of men who were predecessors of the Nihilists, and who looked -forward to a social revolution. The special function of Dostoievsky -in this club was to preach the Slavophil doctrine, according to which -Russia, sociologically speaking, needed no Western models, because -in her workmen’s guilds and her system<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span> of mutual reciprocity for -the payment of taxes, she already possessed the means of realising a -superior form of social organisation.</p> - -<p>The meetings of this club took place shortly after the revolutionary -movement which convulsed Western Europe in 1848. The Emperor Nicholas, -who was a strong-minded and a just although a hard man, imbued with a -religious conviction that he was appointed by God to save the crumbling -world, was dreaming of the emancipation of the serfs, and by a fatal -misunderstanding was led to strike at men whose only crime was that -they shared his own aims and ideals. One evening at a meeting of this -club, Dostoievsky had declaimed Pushkin’s Ode on the Abolition of -Serfdom, when some one present expressed a doubt of the possibility -of obtaining this reform except by insurrectionary means. Dostoievsky -is said to have replied: “Then insurrection let it be!” On the 23rd -of April 1849, at five o’clock in the morning, thirty-four suspected -men were arrested. The two brothers Dostoievsky were among them. They -were imprisoned in a citadel, where they remained for eight months. -On the 22nd of December, Dostoievsky was conducted, with twenty-one -others, to the public square, where a scaffold had been erected. The -other prisoners had been released. While they were taking their places -on the scaffold, Dostoievsky communicated<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span> the idea of a book which he -wished to write to Prince Monbelli, one of his fellow-prisoners, who -related the incident later. There were, that day, 21 degrees of frost -(Réaumur); the prisoners were stripped to their shirts, and had to -listen to their sentence; the reading lasted over twenty minutes: the -sentence was that they were to be shot. Dostoievsky could not believe -in the reality of the event. He said to one of his comrades: “Is it -possible that we are going to be executed?” The friend of whom he asked -the question pointed to a cart laden with objects which, under the -tarpaulin that covered them, looked like coffins. The Registrar walked -down from the scaffold; the Priest mounted it, taking the cross with -him, and bade the condemned men make their last confession. Only one -man, of the shopkeeper class, did so: the others contented themselves -with kissing the cross. Dostoievsky thus relates the close of the scene -in a letter to his brother:</p> - -<p>“They snapped swords above our heads, they made us put on the long -white shirts worn by persons condemned to death. We were bound in -parties of three to stakes to suffer execution. Being third in the row, -I concluded that I had only a few minutes to live. I thought of you and -your dear ones, and I managed to kiss Pleshtcheev and Dourov, who were -next to me, and to bid them farewell.”</p> - -<p>The officer in charge had already commanded<span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span> his firing party to -load; the soldiers were already preparing to take aim, when a white -handkerchief was waved in front of them. They lowered their guns, and -Dostoievsky and the other twenty-one learned that the Emperor had -cancelled the sentence of the military tribunal, and commuted the -sentence of death to one of hard labour for four years. The carts -really contained convict uniforms, which the prisoners had to put on at -once, and they started then and there for Siberia. When the prisoners -were unbound, one of them, Grigoriev, had lost his reason. Dostoievsky, -on the other hand, afterwards affirmed that this episode was his -salvation; and never, either on account of this or of his subsequent -imprisonment, did he ever feel or express anything save gratitude. “If -this catastrophe had not occurred,” said Dostoievsky, alluding to his -sentence, his reprieve and his subsequent imprisonment, “I should have -gone mad.” The moments passed by him in the expectation of immediate -death had an ineffaceable effect upon his entire after-life. They -shifted his angle of vision with regard to the whole world. He knew -something that no man could know who had not been through such moments. -He constantly alludes to the episode in his novels, and in <i>The -Idiot</i> he describes it thus, through the mouth of the principal -character:</p> - -<p>“I will tell you of my meeting last year with a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span> certain man; this -man was connected with a strange circumstance, strange because it is -a very unusual one. He was once led, together with others, on to the -scaffold, and a sentence was read out which told him that he was to be -shot for a political crime. He spent the interval between the sentence -and the reprieve, which lasted twenty minutes, or at least a quarter of -an hour, with the certain conviction that in a few minutes he should -die. I was very anxious to hear how he would recall his impressions. -He remembered everything with extraordinary clearness, and said that -he would never forget a single one of those minutes. Twenty paces from -the scaffold round which the crowd and the soldiers stood, three stakes -were driven into the ground, there being several prisoners. The first -three were led to the stakes and bound, and the white dress of the -condemned was put on them. This consisted of a long white shirt, and -over their eyes white bandages were bound so that they should not see -the guns. Then in front of each stake a firing party was drawn up. My -friend was No. 8, so he went to the stake in the third batch. A priest -carried the cross to each of them. My friend calculated that he had -five minutes more to live, not more. He said that these five minutes -seemed to him an endless period, infinitely precious. In these five<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span> -minutes it seemed to him that he would have so many lives to live that -he need not yet begin to think about his last moment, and in his mind -he made certain arrangements. He calculated the time it would take him -to say good-bye to his comrades; for this he allotted two minutes. He -assigned two more minutes to think one last time of himself, and to -look round for the last time. He remembered distinctly that he made -these three plans, and that he divided his time in this way. He was to -die, aged twenty-seven, healthy and strong, after having said good-bye -to his companions. He remembered that he asked one of them a somewhat -irrelevant question, and was much interested in the answer. Then, after -he had said good-bye to his comrades, came the two minutes which he had -set aside for thinking of himself. He knew beforehand of what he would -think: he wished to represent to himself as quickly and as clearly as -possible how this could be: that now he was breathing and living, and -that in three minutes he would already be something else, some one or -something, but what? and where? All this he felt he could decide in -those two minutes. Not far away was the church, and the cathedral with -its gilded dome was glittering in the sunshine. He remembered that he -looked at the dome with terrible persistence, and on its glittering -rays. He could not tear his gaze away from the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span> rays. It seemed to him -somehow that these rays were his new nature, and that in three minutes -he would be made one with them. The uncertainty and the horror of the -unknown, which was so near, were terrible. But he said that during this -time there was nothing worse than the unceasing thought: ‘What if I do -not die? What if life were restored to me now? What an eternity! And -all this would be mine. I would in that case make every minute into a -century, lose nothing, calculate every moment, and not spend any atom -of the time fruitlessly.’ He said that this thought at last made him so -angry that he wished that they would shoot him at once.”</p> - -<p>Dostoievsky’s sentence consisted of four years’ hard labour in the -convict settlement in Siberia, and this ordeal was doubtless the most -precious boon which Providence could have bestowed on him. When he -started for prison he said to A. Milioukov, as he wished him good-bye: -“The convicts are not wild beasts, but men probably better, and perhaps -much worthier, than myself. During these last months (the months of his -confinement in prison) I have gone through a great deal, but I shall -be able to write about what I shall see and experience in the future.” -It was during the time he spent in prison that Dostoievsky really -found himself. To share the hard labour of the prisoners, to break -up old<span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span> ships, to carry loads of bricks, to sweep up heaps of snow, -strengthened him in body and calmed his nerves, while the contact with -murderers and criminals and prisoners of all kinds, whose inmost nature -he was able to reach, gave him a priceless opportunity of developing -the qualities which were especially his own both as a writer and as a -man.</p> - -<p>With the criminals he was not in the position of a teacher, but of -a disciple; he learnt from them, and in his life with them he grew -physically stronger, and found faith, certitude and peace.</p> - -<p>At the end of the four years (in 1853) he was set free and returned to -ordinary life, strengthened in body and better balanced in mind. He -had still three years to serve in a regiment as a private soldier, and -after this period of service three years more to spend in Siberia. In -1859 he crossed the frontier and came back to Russia, and was allowed -to live first at Tver and then at St. Petersburg. He brought a wife -with him, the widow of one of his former colleagues in the Petrachevsky -conspiracy, whom he had loved and married in Siberia. Until 1865 he -worked at journalism.</p> - -<p>Dostoievsky’s nature was alien to Socialism, and he loathed the moral -materialism of his Socialistic contemporaries. Petrachevsky repelled -him because he was an atheist and laughed at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span> all belief; and the -attitude of Bielinsky towards religion, which was one of flippant -contempt, awoke in Dostoievsky a passion of hatred which blazed up -whenever he thought of the man. Dostoievsky thus became a martyr, and -was within an ace of losing his life for the revolutionary cause; a -movement in which he had never taken part, and in which he disbelieved -all his life.</p> - -<p>Dostoievsky returned from prison just at the time of the emancipation -of the serfs, and the trials which awaited him on his release were -severer than those which he endured during his captivity. In January -1861 he started a newspaper called the <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">Vremya</i>. The venture -was a success. But just as he thought that Fortune was smiling upon -him, and that freedom from want was drawing near, the newspaper, by -an extraordinary misunderstanding, was prohibited by the censorship -for an article on Polish affairs. This blow, like his condemnation to -death, was due to a casual blunder in the official machinery. After -considerable efforts, in 1864 he started another newspaper called the -<i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">Epocha</i>. This newspaper incurred the wrath, not of the Government -censorship, but of the Liberals; and it was now that his peculiar -situation, namely, that of a man between two fires, became evident. -The Liberals abused him in every kind of manner, went so far as to -hint that the <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">Epocha</i> and its staff were Government<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span> spies, and -declared that Dostoievsky was a scribbler with whom the police should -deal. At this same time his brother Michael, his best friend Grigoriev, -who was on the staff of his newspaper, and his first wife, Marie, died -one after another. Dostoievsky was now left all alone; he felt that -his whole life was broken, and that he had nothing to live for. His -brother’s family was left without resources of any kind. He tried to -support them by carrying on the publication of the <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">Epocha</i>, and -worked day and night at this, being the sole editor, reading all the -proofs, dealing with the authors and the censorship, revising articles, -procuring money, sitting up till six in the morning, and sleeping -only five out of the twenty-four hours. But this second paper came to -grief in 1865, and Dostoievsky was forced to own himself temporarily -insolvent. He had incurred heavy liabilities, not only to the -subscribers of the newspaper, but in addition a sum of £1400 in bills -and £700 in debts of honour. He writes to a friend at this period: “I -would gladly go back to prison if only to pay off my debts and to feel -myself free once more.”</p> - -<p>A publishing bookseller, Stellovsky, a notorious rascal, threatened -to have him taken up for debt. He had to choose between the debtors’ -prison and flight: he chose the latter, and escaped abroad,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span> where he -spent four years of inexpressible misery, in the last extremity of want.</p> - -<p>His <i>Crime and Punishment</i> was published in 1866, and this book -brought him fame and popularity; yet in spite of this, on an occasion -in 1869, he was obliged to pawn his overcoat and his last shirt in -order with difficulty to obtain two thalers.</p> - -<p>During all this time his attacks of epilepsy continued. He was -constantly in trouble with his publishers, and bound and hampered by -all sorts of contracts. He writes at this epoch: “In spite of all this -I feel as if I were only just beginning to live. It is curious, isn’t -it? I have the vitality of a cat.” And on another occasion he talks of -his stubborn and inexhaustible vitality. He also says through the mouth -of one of his characters, Dimitri Karamazov, “I can bear anything, any -suffering, if I can only keep on saying to myself: ‘I live; I am in a -thousand torments, but I live! I am on the pillory, but I exist! I see -the sun, or I do not see the sun, but I know that it is there. And to -know that there <em>is</em> a sun is enough.’”</p> - -<p>It was during these four years, overwhelmed by domestic calamity, -perpetually harassed by creditors, attacked by the authorities on -the one hand and the Liberals on the other, misunderstood by his -readers, poor, almost starving, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span> never well, that he composed his -three great masterpieces: <i>Crime and Punishment</i> in 1866, <i>The -Idiot</i> in 1868, and <i>The Possessed</i> in 1871-2; besides planning -<i>The Brothers Karamazov</i>. He had married a second time, in 1867. -He returned to Russia in July 1871: his second exile was over. His -popularity had increased, and the success of his books enabled him -to free himself from debt. He became a journalist once more, and in -1873 edited Prince Meschtcherki’s newspaper, <i>The Grazjdanin</i>. In -1876 he started a monthly review called <i>The Diary of a Writer</i>, -which sometimes appeared once a month and sometimes less often. The -appearance of the last number coincided with his death. This review -was a kind of encyclopædia, in which Dostoievsky wrote all his -social, literary and political ideas, related any stray anecdotes, -recollections and experiences which occurred to him, and commented on -the political and literary topics of the day. He never ceased fighting -his adversaries in this review; and during this time he began his last -book, <i>The Brothers Karamazov</i>, which was never finished. In all -his articles he preached his Slavophil creed, and on one occasion he -made the whole of Russia listen to him and applaud him as one man. -This was on June 8, 1880, when he made a speech at Moscow in memory of -Pushkin, and aroused to frenzy the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span> enthusiasm even of those men whose -political ideals were the exact opposite of his own. He made people -forget they were “Slavophils” or “Westernisers,” and remember only one -thing—that they were Russians.</p> - -<p>In the latter half of 1880, when he was working on <i>The Brothers -Karamazov</i>, Strakhov records: “He was unusually thin and exhausted; -his body had become so frail that the first slight blow might destroy -it. His mental activity was untiring, although work had grown very -difficult for him. In the beginning of 1881 he fell ill with a severe -attack of emphysema, the result of catarrh in the lung. On January 28 -he had hæmorrhage from the throat. Feeling the approach of death, he -wished to confess and to receive the Blessed Sacrament. He gave the New -Testament used by him in prison to his wife to read aloud. The first -passage chanced to be Matthew iii. 14: “But John held Him back and -said, ‘It is I that should be baptized by Thee, and dost Thou come to -me?’ And Jesus answered and said unto him, ‘Detain Me not; for thus it -behoves us to fulfil a great truth.’”</p> - -<p>When his wife had read this, Dostoievsky said: “You hear: Do not detain -me. That means that I am to die.” And he closed the book. A few hours -later he did actually die, instantaneously, from the rupture of an -artery in the lungs.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span></p> - -<p>This was on the 28th of January 1881; on the 30th he was buried in -St. Petersburg. His death and his funeral had about them an almost -mythical greatness, and his funeral is the most striking comment on -the nature of the feeling which the Russian public had for him both -as a writer and as a man. On the day after his death, St. Petersburg -witnessed a most extraordinary sight: the little house in which he had -lived suddenly became for the moment the moral centre of Russia. Russia -understood that with the death of this struggling and disease-stricken -novelist, she had lost something inestimably precious, rare and -irreplaceable. Spontaneously, and without any organised preparation, -the most imposing and triumphant funeral ceremony was given to -Dostoievsky’s remains; and this funeral was not only the greatest and -most inspiring which had ever taken place in Russia, but as far as -its inward significance was concerned there can hardly ever have been -a greater one in the world. Other great writers and other great men -have been buried with more gorgeous pomp and with a braver show of -outward display, but never, when such a man has been followed to the -grave by a mourning multitude, have the trophies and tributes of grief -been so real; for striking as they were by their quantity and their -nature, they seemed but a feeble and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span> slender evidence of the sorrow -and the love to which they bore witness. There were deputations bearing -countless wreaths, there were numerous choirs singing religious chants, -there were thousands of people following in a slow stream along the -streets of St. Petersburg, there were men and women of every class, -but mostly poor people, shabbily dressed, of the lower middle or the -lower classes. The dream of Dostoievsky, that the whole of Russia -should be united by a bond of fraternity and brotherly love, seemed -to be realised when this crowd of men, composed of such various and -widely differing elements, met together in common grief by his grave. -Dostoievsky had lived the life of a pauper, and of a man who had to -fight with all his strength in order to win his daily bread. He had -been assailed by disease and hunted by misfortune; his whole life -seemed to have rushed by before he had had time to sit down quietly and -write the great ideas which were seething in his mind. Everything he -had written seemed to have been written by chance, haphazardly, to have -been jotted down against time, between wind and water. But in spite of -this, in his work, however incomplete, however fragmentary and full -of faults it may have been, there was a voice speaking, a particular -message being delivered, which was different from that of other -writers, and at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span> times more precious. While it was there, the public -took it for granted, like the sun; and it was only when Dostoievsky -died that the hugeness of the gap made by his death, caused them to -feel how great was the place he had occupied both in their hearts -and in their minds. It was only when he died that they recognised -how great a man he was, and how warmly they admired and loved him. -Everybody felt this from the highest to the lowest. Tolstoy, in writing -of Dostoievsky’s death, says: “I never saw the man, and never had any -direct relations with him, yet suddenly when he died I understood -that he was the nearest and dearest and most necessary of men to me. -Everything that he did was of the kind that the more he did of it the -better I felt it was for men. And all at once I read that he is dead, -and a prop has fallen from me.” This is what the whole of Russia felt, -that a support had fallen from them; and this is what they expressed -when they gave to Dostoievsky a funeral such as no king nor Captain -has ever had, a funeral whose very shabbiness was greater than any -splendour, and whose trophies and emblems were the grief of a nation -and the tears of thousands of hearts united together in the admiration -and love of a man whom each one of them regarded as his brother.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p> - - -<h3>III<br /><span class="smcap">Dostoievsky’s Character</span></h3> - -<p>Such, briefly, are the main facts of Dostoievsky’s crowded life. Unlike -Tolstoy, who has himself told us in every conceivable way everything -down to the most intimate detail which is to be known about himself, -Dostoievsky told us little of himself, and all that we know about him -is gathered from other people or from his letters; and even now we -know comparatively little about his life. He disliked talking about -himself; he could not bear to be pitied. He was modest, and shielded -his feelings with a lofty shame. Strakhov writes about him thus:</p> - -<p>“In Dostoievsky you could never detect the slightest bitterness or -hardness resulting from the sufferings he had undergone, and there was -never in him a hint of posing as a martyr. He behaved as if there had -been nothing extraordinary in his past. He never represented himself as -disillusioned, or as not having an equable mind; but, on the contrary, -he appeared cheerful and alert, when his health allowed him to do so. I -remember that a lady coming for the first time to Michael Dostoievsky’s -(his brother’s) evenings at the newspaper office, looked long at -Dostoievsky, and finally said: ‘As I look at you it seems to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span> me that -I see in your face the sufferings which you have endured.’ These words -visibly annoyed Dostoievsky. ‘What sufferings?’ he said, and began to -joke on indifferent matters.”</p> - -<p>Long after his imprisonment and exile, when some friends of his tried -to prove to him that his exile had been a brutal act of injustice, he -said: “The Socialists are the result of the followers of Petrachevsky. -Petrachevsky’s disciples sowed many seeds.” And when he was asked -whether such men deserved to be exiled, he answered: “Our exile was -just; the <em>people</em> would have condemned us.”</p> - -<p>The main characteristics of his nature were generosity, catholicity, -vehement passion, and a “sweet reasonableness.” Once when he was -living with Riesenkampf, a German doctor, he was found living on bread -and milk; and even for that he was in debt at a little milk shop. -This same doctor says that Dostoievsky was “one of those men to live -with whom is good for every one, but who are themselves in perpetual -want.” He was mercilessly robbed, but he would never blame any one -who took advantage of his kindness and his trustfulness. One of his -biographers tells us that his life with Riesenkampf proved expensive to -him, because no poor man who came to see the doctor went away without -having received something from Dostoievsky.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span> One cannot read a page -of his books without being aware of the “sweet reasonableness” of his -nature. This pervaded his writings with fragrance like some precious -balm, and is made manifest to us in the touching simplicity of some -of his characters, such as the Idiot and Alexis Karamazov, to read of -whom is like being with some warm and comforting influence, something -sweet and sensible and infinitely human. His catholicity consists in -an almost boundless power of appreciation, an appreciation of things, -persons and books widely removed from himself by accidents of time, -space, class, nationality and character. Dostoievsky is equally able -to appreciate the very essence of a performance got up by convicts in -his prison, and the innermost beauty of the plays of Racine. This last -point is singular and remarkable. He was universal and cosmopolitan -in his admiration of the literature of foreign countries; and he was -cosmopolitan, not because he wished to cut himself away from Russian -traditions and to become European and Westernised, but because he -was profoundly Russian, and had the peculiarly Russian plastic and -receptive power of understanding and assimilating things widely -different from himself.</p> - -<p>When he was a young man, Shakespeare and Schiller were well known, -and it was the fashion<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span> to admire them. It was equally the fashion to -despise the French writers of the seventeenth century. But Dostoievsky -was just as enthusiastic in his admiration of Racine and Corneille and -all the great classics of the seventeenth century. Thus he writes: -“But Phèdre, brother! You will be the Lord knows what if you say this -is not the highest and purest nature and poetry; the outline of it is -Shakespearian, but the statue is in plaster, not in marble.” And again -of Corneille: “Have you read <i>The Cid</i>? Read it, you wretch, read -it, and go down in the dust before Corneille!”</p> - -<p>Dostoievsky was constantly “going down in the dust” before the great -masterpieces, not only of his own, but of other countries, which bears -out the saying that “La valeur morale de l’homme est en proportion de -sa faculté d’admirer.”</p> - -<p>Dostoievsky never theorised as to how alms should be given, or as -to how charity should be organised. He gave what he had, simply and -naturally, to those who he saw had need of it; and he had a right to -this knowledge, for he himself had received alms in prison. Neither -did he ever theorise as to whether a man should leave the work which -he was fitted by Providence to do (such as writing books), in order to -plough fields and to cut down trees. He had practised<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span> hard labour, -not as a theoretic amateur, but as a constrained professional. He had -carried heavy loads of bricks and broken up ships and swept up heaps of -snow, not out of philosophy or theory, but because he had been obliged -to do so; because if he had not done so he would have been severely -punished. All that Tolstoy dreamed of and aimed at, which was serious -in theory but not serious in practice, that is to say, giving up his -property, becoming one with the people, ploughing the fields, was a -reality to Dostoievsky when he was in prison. He knew that hard labour -is only real when it is a necessity, when you cannot leave off doing -it when you want to; he had experienced this kind of hard labour for -four years, and during his whole life he had to work for his daily -bread. The result of this is that he made no theories about what work -a man <em>should</em> do, but simply did as well as he could the work he -<em>had</em> to do. In the words of a ballade written by <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Chesterton, -he might have said:</p> - -<p class="poetry"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“We eat the cheese,—you scraped about the rind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You lopped the tree—we eat the fruit instead.</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You were benevolent, but we were kind,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">You know the laws of food, but we were fed.”</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>And this is the great difference between Dostoievsky and Tolstoy. -Tolstoy was benevolent, but Dostoievsky was kind. Tolstoy theorised on -the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span> distribution of food, but Dostoievsky was fed and received alms -like a beggar. Dostoievsky, so far from despising the calling of an -author, or thinking that it was an occupation “thin sown with aught of -profit or delight” for the human race, loved literature passionately. -He was proud of his profession: he was a great man of letters as well -as a great author. “I have never sold,” he wrote, “one of my books -without getting the price down beforehand. I am a literary proletarian. -If anybody wants my work he must ensure me by prepayment.”</p> - -<p>There is something which resembles <abbr title="doctor">Dr.</abbr> Johnson in the way he talks of -his profession and his attitude towards it. But there is, nevertheless, -in the phrase just quoted, something bitterly ironical when one -reflects that he was a poor man all his life and incessantly harassed -by creditors, and that he derived almost nothing from the great -popularity and sale of his books.</p> - -<p>“Dostoievsky,” writes Strakov, “loved literature; he took her -as she was, with all her conditions; he never stood apart from -literature, and he never looked down upon her. This absence of -the least hint of literary snobbishness is in him a beautiful and -touching characteristic. Russian literature was the one lodestar of -Dostoievsky’s life, and he cherished for it a passionate love and -devotion. He knew very well that when he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span> entered the lists he would -have to go into the public market-place, and he was never ashamed of -his trade nor of his fellow-workers. On the contrary, he was proud of -his profession, and considered it a great and sacred one.”</p> - -<p>He speaks of himself as a literary hack: he writes at so much a line, -three and a half printed pages of a newspaper in two days and two -nights. “Often,” he says, “it happened in my literary career that the -beginning of the chapter of a novel or story was already set up, and -the end was still in my mind and had to be written by the next day.” -Again: “Work from want and for money has crushed and devoured me. Will -my poverty ever cease? Ah, if I had money, then I should be free!”</p> - -<p>I have said that one of the main elements of Dostoievsky’s character -was vehement passion. There was more than a vehement element of passion -in Dostoievsky; he was not only passionate in his loves and passionate -in his hates, but his passion was unbridled. In this he resembles -the people of the Renaissance. There were perilous depths in his -personality; black pools of passion; a seething whirlpool that sent -up every now and then great eddies of boiling surge; yet this passion -has nothing about it which is undefinably evil; it never smells of the -pit. The reason of this is that although Dostoievsky’s<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span> soul descended -into hell, it was purged by the flames, and no poisonous fumes ever -came from it. There was something of St. Francis in him, and something -of Velasquez. Dostoievsky was a violent hater. I have already told -how he hated Bielinsky, the Socialists and the materialists whom he -attacked all his life, but against Tourgeniev he nourished a blind and -causeless hatred. This manifests itself as soon as he leaves prison, in -the following outburst: “I know very well,” he writes, “that I write -worse than Tourgeniev, but not so very much worse, and after all I hope -one day to write quite as well as he does. Why, with my crying wants, -do I receive only 100 roubles a sheet, and Tourgeniev, who possesses -two thousand serfs, receives 400 roubles? Owing to my poverty I am -<em>obliged</em> to hurry, to write for money, and consequently to spoil -my work.” In a postscript he says that he sends Katkov, the great -Moscow editor, fifteen sheets at 100 roubles a sheet, that is, 1500 -roubles in all. “I have had 500 roubles from him, and besides, when I -had sent three-quarters of the novel, I asked him for 200 to help me -along, or 700 altogether. I shall reach Tver without a farthing. But, -on the other hand, I shall shortly receive from Katkov seven or eight -hundred roubles.”</p> - -<p>It must not be forgotten that the whole nature of Dostoievsky, both as -man and artist, was profoundly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span> modified by the disease from which he -suffered all his life, his epilepsy. He had therefore two handicaps -against him: disease and poverty. But it is his epilepsy which was -probably the cause of his dislikes, his hatreds and his outbreaks of -violent passion. The attacks of epilepsy came upon him about once a -month, and sometimes, though not often, they were more frequent. He -once had two in a week. His friend Strakov describes one of them thus: -“I once saw one of his ordinary attacks: it was, I fancy, in 1863, -just before Easter. Late in the evening, about eleven o’clock, he came -to see me, and we had a very animated conversation. I cannot remember -the subject, but I know that it was important and abstruse. He became -excited, and walked about the room while I sat at the table. He said -something fine and jubilant. I confirmed his opinion by some remark, -and he turned to me a face which positively glowed with the most -transcendent inspiration. He paused for a moment, as if searching for -words, and had already opened his lips to speak. I looked at him all -expectant for fresh revelation. Suddenly from his open mouth issued a -strange, prolonged, and inarticulate moan. He sank senseless on the -floor in the middle of the room.”</p> - -<p>The ancients called this “the sacred sickness.”<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span> Just before the -attacks, Dostoievsky felt a kind of rapture, something like what people -say they feel when they hear very great music, a perfect harmony -between himself and the world, a sensation as if he had reached the -edge of a planet, and were falling off it into infinite space. And this -feeling was such that for some seconds of the rapture, he said, you -might give ten years of your life, or even the whole of it. But after -the attack his condition was dreadful, and he could hardly sustain the -state of low-spirited dreariness and sensitiveness into which he was -plunged. He felt like a criminal, and fancied there hung over him an -invisible guilt, a great transgression. He compares both sensations, -suddenly combined and blended in a flash, to the famous falling pitcher -of Mahomet, which had not time to empty itself while the Prophet -on Allah’s steed was girdling heaven and hell. It is no doubt the -presence of this disease and the frequency of the attacks, which were -responsible for the want of balance in his nature and in his artistic -conceptions, just as his grinding poverty and the merciless conditions -of his existence are responsible for the want of finish in his style. -But Dostoievsky had the qualities of his defects, and it is perhaps -owing to his very illness, and to its extraordinary nature, that he -was able so deeply to penetrate into the human soul. It is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span> as if the -veil of flesh and blood dividing the soul from that which is behind all -things, was finer and more transparent in Dostoievsky than in other -men: by his very illness he may have been able to discern what is -invisible to others. It is certainly owing to the combined poverty and -disease which made up his life, that he had such an unexampled insight -into the lives and hearts of the humble, the rejected, the despised, -the afflicted, and the oppressed. He sounded the utmost depths of human -misery, he lived face to face with the lowest representatives of human -misfortune and disgrace, and he was neither dispirited nor dismayed. He -came to the conclusion that it was all for the best, and like Job in -dust and ashes consented to the eternal scheme. And though all his life -he was one of the conquered, he never ceased fighting, and never for -one moment believed that life was not worth living. On the contrary, he -blessed life and made others bless it.</p> - -<p>His life was “a long disease,” rendered harder to bear and more -difficult by exceptionally cruel circumstances. In spite of this, -Dostoievsky was a happy man: he was happy and he was cheerful; and he -was happy not because he was a saint, but because, in spite of all his -faults, he radiated goodness; because his immense heart overflowed -in kindness, and having suffered much himself, he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span> understood the -sufferings of others; thus although his books are terrible, and deal -with the darkest clouds which can overshadow the human spirit, the -descent into hell of the human soul, yet the main impression left by -them is not one of gloom but one of comfort. Dostoievsky is, above all -things, a healer and a comforter, and this is because the whole of -his teaching, his morality, his art, his character, are based on the -simple foundation of what the Russians call “dolgoterpjenie,” that is, -forbearance, and “smirenie,” that is to say, resignation. In the whole -history of the world’s literature there is no literary man’s life which -was so arduous and so hard; but Dostoievsky never complained, nor, we -can be sure, would he have wished his life to have been otherwise. His -life was a martyrdom, but he enjoyed it. Although no one more nearly -than he bears witness to Heine’s saying that “where a great spirit is, -there is Golgotha,” yet we can say without hesitation that Dostoievsky -was a happy man, and he was happy because he never thought about -himself, and because, consciously or unconsciously, he relieved and -comforted the sufferings of others. And his books continued to do so -long after he ceased to live.</p> - -<p>All this can be summed up in one word: the value of Dostoievsky’s life. -And the whole reason that his books, although they deal with the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span> -tragedies of mankind, bring comfort to the reader instead of gloom, -hope instead of despair, is, firstly, that Dostoievsky was an altruist, -and that he fulfilled the most difficult precept of Christianity—to -love others better than oneself; and, secondly, that in leading us down -in the lowest depths of tragedy, he shows us that where man ends, God -takes up the tale.</p> - - -<h3>IV<br /><span class="smcap"><i>Poor Folk</i> and the <i>Letters from a Dead House</i></span></h3> - -<p>In his first book, <i>Poor Folk</i>, which was published in 1846, -we have the germ of all Dostoievsky’s talent and genius. It is true -that he accomplished far greater things, but never anything more -characteristic. It is the story of a poor official, a minor clerk in -a Government office, already aged and worn with cares, who battles -against material want. In his sombre and monotonous life there is a ray -of light: in another house as poor and as squalid as his own, there -lives a girl, a distant relation of his, who is also in hard and humble -circumstances, and who has nothing in the world save the affection -and friendship of this poor clerk. They write to each other daily. -In the man’s letters a discreet unselfishness is revealed, a rare -delicacy of feeling, which is in sharp contrast<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span> to the awkwardness -of his everyday actions and ideas, which verge on the grotesque. At -the office, he has to cringe and sacrifice his honour in order not -to forfeit the favour of his superiors. He stints himself, and makes -every kind of small sacrifice, in order that this woman may be relieved -of her privations. He writes to her like a father or brother; but it -is easy for us to see in his simple phrases that he is in love with -her, although she does not realise it. The character of the woman is -equally clear to us: she is superior to him in education and mind, and -she is less resigned to her fate than he is. In the course of their -correspondence we learn all that is to be known about their past, their -melancholy history and the small incidents of their everyday life, the -struggle that is continually working in the mind of the clerk between -his material want and his desire not to lose his personal honour. This -correspondence continues day by day until the crisis comes, and the -clerk loses the one joy of his life, and learns that his friend is -engaged to be married. But she has not been caught up or carried off -in a brilliant adventure: she marries a middle-aged man, very rich and -slightly discredited, and all her last letters are full of commissions -which she trusts to her devoted old friend to accomplish. He is sent to -the dress-makers about her gowns, and to the jeweller about<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span> her rings; -and all this he accepts and does with perfect self-sacrifice; and his -sacrifice seems quite accidental, a matter of course: there is not the -slightest pose in it, nor any fuss, and only at the end, in his very -last letter, and even then only in a veiled and discreet form, does he -express anything of the immense sorrow which the blow is bringing to -him.</p> - -<p>The woman’s character is as subtly drawn as the man’s; she is more -independent than he, and less resigned; she is kind and good, and it -is from no selfish motives that she grasps at the improvement in her -fortunes. But she is still young, and her youth rises within her and -imperatively claims its natural desires. She is convinced that by -accepting the proposal which is made to her she will alleviate her -friend’s position as much as her own; moreover, she regards him as -a faithful friend, and nothing more. But we, the outsiders who read -his letters, see clearly that what he feels for her is more than -friendship: it is simply love and nothing else.</p> - -<p>The second important book which Dostoievsky wrote (for the stories he -published immediately after <i>Poor Folk</i> were not up to his mark) -was the <i>Letters from a Dead House</i>, which was published on his -return to Russia in 1861. This book may not be his finest artistic -achievement, but it is certainly the most humanly interesting book -which he ever wrote, and one of the most interesting<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span> books which exist -in the whole of the world’s literature. In this book he told his prison -experiences: they were put forward in the shape of the posthumous -records of a nobleman who had committed murder out of jealousy, and -was condemned to spend some years in the convict prison. The book is -supposed to be the papers which this nobleman left behind him. They -cover a period of four years, which was the term of Dostoievsky’s -sentence. The most remarkable characteristic of the book is the entire -absence of egotism in the author. Many authors in similar circumstances -would have written volumes of self-analysis, and filled pages with -their lamentations and in diagnosing their sensations. Very few men -in such a situation could have avoided a slight pose of martyrdom. -In Dostoievsky there is nothing of this. He faces the horror of the -situation, but he has no grievance; and the book is all about other -people and as little as possible about himself. And herein lies its -priceless value, for there is no other book either of fiction or travel -which throws such a searching light on the character of the Russian -people, and especially on that of the Russian peasants. Dostoievsky -got nearer to the Russian peasant than any one has ever done, and -necessarily so, because he lived with them on equal terms as a convict. -But this alone would not suffice<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span> to produce so valuable a book; -something else was necessary, and the second indispensable factor was -supplied by Dostoievsky’s peculiar nature, his simplicity of mind, his -kindness of heart, his sympathy and understanding. In the very first -pages of this book we are led into the heart of a convict’s life: the -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">milieu</i> rises before us in startling vividness. The first thing -which we are made aware of is that this prison life has a peculiar -character of its own. The strange family or colony which was gathered -together in this Siberian prison consisted of criminals of every grade -and description, and in which not only every class of Russian society, -but every shade and variety of the Russian people was represented; that -is to say, there were here assassins by profession, and men who had -become assassins by chance, robbers, brigands, tramps, pick-pockets, -smugglers, peasants, Armenians, Jews, Poles, Mussulmans, soldiers -who were there for insubordination and even for murder; officers, -gentlemen, and political prisoners, and men who were there no one knew -why.</p> - -<p>Now Dostoievsky points out that at a first glance you could detect one -common characteristic in this strange family. Even the most sharply -defined, the most eccentric and original personalities, who stood -out and towered above their comrades, even these did their<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span> best to -adopt the manners and customs, the unwritten code, the etiquette of -the prison. In general, he continues, these people with a very few -exceptions (innately cheerful people who met with universal contempt) -were surly, envious, extraordinarily vain, boastful, touchy, and in -the highest degree punctilious and conventional. To be astonished at -nothing was considered the highest quality; and in all of them the -one aim and obsession was outward demeanour and the wish to keep up -appearances. There were men who pretended to have either great moral -or great physical strength and boasted of it, who were in reality -cowards at heart, and whose cowardice was revealed in a flash. There -were also men who possessed really strong characters; but the curious -thing was, Dostoievsky tells us, that these really strong characters -were abnormally vain. The main and universal characteristic of the -criminal was his vanity, his desire, as the Italians say, to <i lang="it" xml:lang="it">fare -figura</i> at all costs. I have been told that this is true of English -prisons, where prisoners will exercise the most extraordinary ingenuity -in order to shave. The greater part of these people were radically -vicious, and frightfully quarrelsome. The gossip, the backbiting, the -tale-bearing, and the repeating of small calumnies were incessant; yet -in spite of this not one man dared to stand up against the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span> public -opinion of the prison, according to whose etiquette and unwritten law -a particular kind of demeanour was observed. In other words, these -prisoners were exactly like private schoolboys or public schoolboys. At -a public school, boys will create a certain etiquette, which has its -unwritten law; for instance, let us take Eton. At Eton you may walk on -one side of the street but not on the other, unless you are a person -of sufficient importance. When you wear a great-coat, you must always -turn the collar up, unless you are a person of a particular importance. -You must likewise never go about with an umbrella unrolled; and, far -more important than all these questions, there arrives a psychological -moment in the career of an Eton boy when, of his own accord, he wears -a stick-up collar instead of a turned-down collar, by which act he -proclaims to the world that he is a person of considerable importance. -These rules are unwritten and undefined. Nobody tells another boy -not to walk on the wrong side of the road; no boy will ever dream of -turning down his collar, if he is not important enough; and in the -third and more special case, the boy who suddenly puts on a stick-up -collar must feel himself by instinct when that psychological moment -has arrived. It is not done for any definite reason, it is merely the -expression of a kind of atmosphere. He knows at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span> a given moment that -he can or cannot go into stick-ups. Some boys can go into stick-ups -for almost nothing, if they have in their personality the necessary -amount of imponderable prestige; others, though the possessors of many -trophies and colours, can only do so at the last possible minute. But -all must have some definite reason for going into stick-ups: no boy -can go into stick-ups merely because he is clever and thinks a lot of -himself,—that would not only be impossible, but unthinkable.</p> - -<p>Dostoievsky’s account of the convicts reminds me so strongly of the -conduct of private and public schoolboys in England, that, with a few -slight changes, his <i>Letters from a Dead House</i> might be about -an English school, as far as the mere etiquette of the convicts is -concerned. Here, for instance, is a case in point: Dostoievsky says -that there lived in this prison men of dynamic personalities, who -feared neither God nor man, and had never obeyed any one in their -lives; and yet they at once fell in with the standard of behaviour -expected of them. There came to the prison men who had been the terror -of their village and their neighbourhood. Such a “new boy” looked -round, and at once understood that he had arrived at a place where he -could astonish no one, and that the only thing to do was to be quiet -and fall in with the manners of the place,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span> and into what Dostoievsky -calls the universal etiquette, which he defines as follows: “This -etiquette,” he says, “consisted outwardly of a kind of peculiar dignity -with which every inhabitant of the prison was impregnated, as if the -fact of being a convict was, <i lang="la" xml:lang="la">ipso facto</i>, a kind of rank, and a -respectable rank.” This is exactly the point of view of a schoolboy -at a private school. A schoolboy prefers to be at home rather than at -school. He knows that he is obliged to be at school, he is obliged to -work against his will, and to do things which are often disagreeable to -him; at the same time his entire efforts are strained to one object, -towards preserving the dignity of his status. That was the great -ambition of the convicts, to preserve the dignity of the status of a -convict. Throughout this book one receives the impression that the -convicts behaved in many ways like schoolboys; in fact, in one place -Dostoievsky says that in many respects they were exactly like children. -He quotes, for instance, their delight in spending the little money -they could get hold of on a smart linen shirt and a belt, and walking -round the whole prison to show it off. They did not keep such finery -long, and nearly always ended by selling it for almost nothing; but -their delight while they possessed it was intense. There was, however, -one curious item in their code of morals, which is singularly unlike -that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span> of schoolboys in England, in Russia, or in any other country: -they had no horror of a man who told tales to the authorities, who, in -schoolboy language, was a sneak. “The Sneak” did not expose himself -to the very smallest loss of caste. Indignation against him was an -unthinkable thing: nobody shunned him, people were friends with him; -and if you had explained in the prison the whole odiousness of his -behaviour, they would not have understood you at all.</p> - -<p>“There was one of the gentlemen prisoners, a vicious and mean fellow, -with whom from the first moment I would have nothing to do. He made -friends with the major’s orderly, and became his spy; and this man -told everything he heard about the prisoners to the major. We all knew -this, and nobody ever once thought of punishing or even of blaming the -scoundrel.”</p> - -<p>This is the more remarkable from the fact that in Russian schools, -and especially in those schools where military discipline prevails, -sneaking is the greatest possible crime. In speaking of another man -who constantly reported everything to the authorities, Dostoievsky -says that the other convicts despised him, not because he sneaked, but -because he did not know how to behave himself properly.</p> - -<p>The convicts, although they never showed the slightest signs of remorse -or regret for anything<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span> they had done in the past, were allowed by -their etiquette to express, as it were officially, a kind of outward -resignation, a peaceful logic, such as, “We are a fallen people. We -could not live in freedom, and now we must break stones.... We could -not obey father and mother, and now we must obey the beating of the -drum.” The criminals abused each other mercilessly; they were adepts -in the art, more than adepts, artists. Abuse in their hands became a -science and a fine art; their object was to find not so much the word -that would give pain, as the offensive thought, the spirit, the idea, -as to who should be most venomous, the most razor-like in his abuse.</p> - -<p>Another striking characteristic which also reminds one of schoolboys, -was that the convict would be, as a rule, obedient and submissive in -the extreme. But there were certain limits beyond which his patience -was exhausted, and when once this limit was overstepped by his warders -or the officer in charge, he was ready to do anything, even to commit -murder, and feared no punishment.</p> - -<p>Dostoievsky tells us that during all the time he was in prison he never -noticed among the convicts the slightest sign of remorse, the slightest -burden of spirit with regard to the crimes they had committed; and -the majority of them in their hearts considered themselves perfectly<span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span> -justified. But the one thing they could not bear, not because it roused -feelings of emotion in them, but because it was against the etiquette -of the place, was that people should dwell upon their past crimes. He -quotes one instance of a man who was drunk—the convicts could get -wine—beginning to relate how he had killed a child of five years old. -The whole prison, which up till then had been laughing at his jokes, -cried out like a man, and the assassin was obliged to be silent. -They did not cry out from indignation, but because it was not <em>the -thing</em> to speak of <em>that</em>, because to speak of <em>that</em> was -considered to be violating the unwritten code of the prison. The two -things which Dostoievsky found to be the hardest trials during his life -as a convict were, first, the absolute absence of privacy, since during -the whole four years he was in prison he was never for one minute -either by day or night alone; and, secondly, the bar which existed -between him and the majority of the convicts, owing to the fact that he -was a gentleman. The convicts hated people of the upper class; although -such men were on a footing of social equality with them, the convicts -never recognised them as comrades. Quite unconsciously, even sincerely, -they regarded them as gentlemen, although they liked teasing them about -their change of circumstance. They despised them because they did<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span> not -know how to work properly, and Dostoievsky says that he was two years -in prison before he won over some of the convicts, though one can see -from his accounts of what they said to him, how much they must have -liked him, and he admits that the majority of them recognised, after -a time, that he was a good fellow. He points out how much harder such -a sentence was on one of his own class than on a peasant. The peasant -arrives from all ends of Russia, no matter where it be, and finds in -prison the <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">milieu</i> he is accustomed to, and into which he falls -at once without difficulty. He is treated as a brother and an equal -by the people who are there. With a gentleman it is different, and -especially, Dostoievsky tells us, with a political offender, whom the -majority of the convicts hate. He never becomes an equal; they may like -him, as they obviously did in Dostoievsky’s case, but they never regard -him as being on a footing of equality with themselves. They preferred -even foreigners, Germans for instance, to the Russian gentlemen; and -the people they disliked most of all were the gentlemen Poles, because -they were almost exaggeratedly polite towards the convicts, and at -the same time could not conceal their innate hatred of them. With -regard to the effect of this difference of class, Dostoievsky, in the -course of the book, tells a striking story. Every<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span> now and then, when -the convicts had a grievance about their food or their treatment, -they would go on strike, and assemble in the prison yard. Dostoievsky -relates that one day there was a strike about the food. As all the -convicts were gathered together in the yard, he joined them, whereupon -he was immediately told that that was not his place, that he had better -go to the kitchen, where the Poles and the other gentlemen were. He -was told this kindly by his friends, and men who were less friendly to -him made it plain by shouting out sarcastic remarks to him. Although -he wished to stay, he was told that he must go. Afterwards the strike -was dispersed and the strikers punished, and Dostoievsky asked a friend -of his, one of the convicts, whether they were not angry with the -gentlemen convicts.</p> - -<p>“Why?” asked this man.</p> - -<p>“Why, because we did not join in the strike.”</p> - -<p>“Why should you have joined in the strike?” asked the convict, trying -to understand, “You buy your own food.”</p> - -<p>“Many of us eat the ordinary food,” answered Dostoievsky, “but I should -have thought that apart from this we ought to have joined, out of -fellowship, out of comradeship.”</p> - -<p>“But you are not our comrade,” said the other man quite simply; and -Dostoievsky saw that the man did not even understand what he meant.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span> -Dostoievsky realised that he could never be a real comrade of these -men; he might be a convict for a century, he might be the most -experienced of criminals, the most accomplished of assassins, the -barrier existing between the classes would never disappear: to them -he would always be a gentleman, it would always be a case of “You go -your way, we go ours.” And this, he said, was the saddest thing he -experienced during the whole of his prison life.</p> - -<p>The thing which perhaps caused him the most pleasure was the insight -he gained into the kindness shown to convicts by outsiders. Alluding -to the doctors in the prison hospital, he says: “It is well known to -prisoners all over Russia that the men who sympathise with them the -most are the doctors: they never make the slightest difference in their -treatment of prisoners, as nearly all outsiders do, except perhaps the -Russian poor. The Russian poor man never blames the prisoner for his -crime, however terrible it may be; he forgives him everything for the -punishment that he is enduring, and for his misfortune in general. -It is not in vain that the whole of the Russian people call crime a -misfortune and criminals ‘unfortunates.’ This definition has a deep -meaning; it is all the more valuable in that it is made unconsciously -and instinctively.”</p> - -<p>It is an incident revealing this pity for the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span> unfortunate which gave -Dostoievsky more pleasure than anything during his stay in prison. It -was the first occasion on which he directly received alms. He relates -it thus:</p> - -<p>“It was soon after my arrival in the prison: I was coming back from my -morning’s work, accompanied only by the guard. There met me a mother -and her daughter. The little girl was ten years old, as pretty as a -cherub; I had already seen them once; the mother was the wife of a -soldier, a widow; her husband, a young soldier, had been under arrest, -and had died in the hospital in the same ward in which I had lain ill. -The wife and the daughter had come to say good-bye to him, and both had -cried bitterly. Seeing me, the little girl blushed, whispered something -to her mother, and she immediately stopped and took out of her bundle a -quarter of a kopeck and gave it to the little girl. The child ran after -me and called out, ‘Unfortunate! For the sake of Christ, take this -copper.’ I took the piece of money, and the little girl ran back to her -mother quite contented. I kept that little piece of money for a very -long time.”</p> - -<p>What is most remarkable about the book, are the many and various -discoveries which Dostoievsky made with regard to human nature: his -power of getting behind the gloomy mask of the criminal to the real man -underneath, his success<span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span> in detecting the “soul of goodness” in the -criminals. Every single one of the characters he describes stands out -in startling relief; and if one began to quote these one would never -end. Nevertheless I will quote a few instances.</p> - -<p>There is Akim Akimitch, an officer who had earned his sentence thus: -He had served in the Caucasus, and been made governor of some small -fortress. One night a neighbouring Caucasian prince attacked his -fortress and burnt it down, but was defeated and driven back. Akim -Akimitch pretended not to know who the culprit was. A month elapsed, -and Akim Akimitch asked the prince to come and pay him a visit. He -came without suspecting any evil. Akim Akimitch marched out his -troops, and in their presence told him it was exceedingly wrong to -burn down fortresses; and after giving him minute directions as to -what the behaviour of a peaceful prince should be, shot him dead on -the spot, and reported the case to his superiors. He was tried and -condemned to death, but his sentence was commuted to twelve years’ -hard labour. Akim Akimitch had thus once in his life acted according -to his own judgment, and the result had been penal servitude. He had -not common sense enough to see where he had been guilty, but he came -to the conclusion that he never under any circumstances ought to judge -for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span> himself. He thenceforth renounced all initiative of any kind or -sort, and made himself into a machine. He was uneducated, extremely -accurate, and the soul of honesty; very clever with his fingers, he -was by turn carpenter, bootmaker, shoemaker, gilder, and there was no -trade which he could not learn. Akim Akimitch arranged his life in -so methodical a manner in every detail, with such pedantic accuracy, -that at first he almost drove Dostoievsky mad, although Akim Akimitch -was kindness itself to him, and helped him in every possible way -during the first days of his imprisonment. Akim Akimitch appeared to -be absolutely indifferent as to whether he was in prison or not. He -arranged everything as though he were to stay there for the rest of his -life; everything, from his pillow upwards, was arranged as though no -change could possibly occur to him. At first Dostoievsky found the ways -of this automaton a severe trial, but he afterwards became entirely -reconciled to him.</p> - -<p>Then there was Orlov, one of the more desperate criminals. He was a -soldier who had deserted. He was of small stature and slight build, -but he was absolutely devoid of any sort of fear. Dostoievsky says -that never in his life had he met with such a strong, such an iron -character as this man had. There was, in this man, a complete triumph -of the spirit over the flesh. He<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span> could bear any amount of physical -punishment with supreme indifference. He was consumed with boundless -energy, a thirst for action, for revenge, and for the accomplishment -of the aim which he set before him. He looked down on everybody in -prison. Dostoievsky says he doubts whether there was any one in the -world who could have influenced this man by his authority. He had a -calm outlook on the world, as though there existed nothing that could -astonish him; and although he knew that the other convicts looked up to -him with respect, there was no trace of swagger about him: he was not -at all stupid, and terribly frank, although not talkative. Dostoievsky -would ask him about his adventures. He did not much like talking about -them, but he always answered frankly. When once he understood, however, -that Dostoievsky was trying to find out whether he felt any pangs of -conscience or remorse for what he had done, he looked at him with a -lofty and utter contempt, as though he suddenly had to deal with some -stupid little boy who could not reason like grown-up people. There -was even an expression of pity in his face, and after a minute or two -he burst out in the simplest and heartiest laugh, without a trace of -irony, and Dostoievsky was convinced that when left to himself he must -have laughed again time after time, so comic did the thought appear to -him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span></p> - -<p>One of the most sympathetic characters Dostoievsky describes is a -young Tartar called Alei, who was not more than twenty-two years old. -He had an open, clever, and even beautiful face, and a good-natured -and naïve expression which won your heart at once. His smile was so -confiding, so childlike and simple, his big black eyes so soft and -kind, that it was a consolation merely to look at him. He was in prison -for having taken part in an expedition made by his brothers against a -rich Armenian merchant whom they had robbed. He retained his softness -of heart and simplicity and his strict honesty all the time he was in -prison; he never quarrelled, although he knew quite well how to stand -up for himself, and everybody liked him. “I consider Alei,” writes -Dostoievsky, “as being far from an ordinary personality, and I count my -acquaintance with him as one of the most valuable events of my life. -There are characters so beautiful by nature, so near to God, that even -the very thought that they may some day change for the worse seems -impossible. As far as they are concerned you feel absolutely secure, -and I now feel secure for Alei. Where is he now?”</p> - -<p>I cannot help quoting two incidents in Dostoievsky’s prison life which -seem to me to throw light on the characteristics of the people with -whom he mixed, and their manner of behaviour; the first<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span> is a story of -how a young soldier called Sirotkin came to be a convict. Here is the -story which Dostoievsky gives us in the man’s own words:</p> - -<p>“My mother loved me very much. When I became a recruit, I have since -heard, she lay down on her bed and never rose again. As a recruit I -found life bitter. The colonel did not like me, and punished me for -everything. And what for? I was obedient, orderly, I never drank wine, -I never borrowed, and that, Alexander Petrovitch, is a bad business, -when a man borrows. All round me were such hard hearts, there was no -place where one could have a good cry. Sometimes I would creep into -a corner and cry a little there. Once I was standing on guard as a -sentry; it was night. The wind was blowing, it was autumn, and so -dark you could see nothing. And I was so miserable, so miserable! I -took my gun, unscrewed the bayonet, and laid it on the ground; then I -pulled off my right boot, put the muzzle of the barrel to my heart, -leaned heavily on it and pulled the trigger with my big toe. It was -a miss-fire. I examined the gun, cleaned the barrel, put in another -cartridge and again pressed it to my breast. Again a miss-fire. I put -on my boot again, fixed the bayonet, shouldered my gun, and walked up -and down in silence; and I settled that whatever might happen I would -get out of being a recruit. Half an hour<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span> later the colonel rode by, at -the head of the patrol, right past me.</p> - -<p>“‘Is that the way to stand on guard?’ he said.</p> - -<p>“I took the gun in my hand and speared him with the bayonet right up to -the muzzle of the gun. I was severely flogged, and was sent here for -life.”</p> - -<p>The second story is about a man who “exchanged” his sentence. It -happened thus: A party of exiles were going to Siberia. Some were -going to prison, some were merely exiled; some were going to work in -factories, but all were going together. They stopped somewhere on the -way in the Government of Perm. Among these exiles there was a man -called Mikhailov, who was condemned to a life sentence for murder. He -was a cunning fellow, and made up his mind to exchange his sentence. He -comes across a simple fellow called Shushilov, who was merely condemned -to a few years’ transportation, that is to say, he had to live in -Siberia and not in European Russia for a few years. This latter man was -naïve, ignorant, and, moreover, had no money of his own. Mikhailov made -friends with him and finally made him drunk, and then proposed to him -an exchange of sentences. Mikhailov said: “It is true that I am going -to prison, but I am going to some <em>special department</em>,” which he -explained was a particular favour,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span> as it was a kind of first class. -Shushilov, under the influence of drink, and being simple-minded, was -full of gratitude for the offer, and Mikhailov taking advantage of -his simplicity bought his name from him for a red shirt and a silver -rouble, which he gave him on the spot, before witnesses. On the -following day Shushilov spent the silver rouble and sold the red shirt -for drink also, but as soon as he became sober again he regretted the -bargain. Then Mikhailov said to him: “If you regret the bargain give -me back my money.” This he could not do; it was impossible for him -to raise a rouble. At the next <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">étape</i> at which they stopped, -when their names were called and the officer called out Mikhailov, -Shushilov answered and Mikhailov answered to Shushilov’s name, and the -result was that when they left Tobolsk, Mikhailov was sent somewhere -to spend a few years in exile, and Shushilov became a “lifer”; and the -special department which the other man talked of as a kind of superior -class, turned out to be the department reserved for the most desperate -criminals of all, those who had no chance of ever leaving prison, and -who were most strictly watched and guarded. It was no good complaining; -there was no means of rectifying the mistake. There were no witnesses. -Had there been witnesses they would have perjured themselves. And -so Shushilov, who had done<span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span> nothing at all, received the severest -sentence the Russian Government had power to inflict, whereas the -other man, a desperate criminal, merely enjoyed a few years’ change -of air in the country. The most remarkable thing about this story is -this: Dostoievsky tells us that the convicts despised Shushilov, not -because he had exchanged his sentence, but because he had made so bad -a bargain, and had only got a red shirt and a silver rouble. Had he -exchanged it for two or three shirts and two or three roubles, they -would have thought it quite natural.</p> - -<p>The whole book is crammed with such stories, each one of which throws a -flood of light on the character of the Russian people.</p> - -<p>These <i>Letters from a Dead House</i> are translated into French, and -a good English translation of them by Marie von Thilo was published by -Messrs. Longmans in 1881. But it is now, I believe, out of print. Yet -if there is one foreign book in the whole world which deserves to be -well known, it is this one. Not only because it throws more light on -the Russian people than any other book which has ever been written, -but also because it tells in the simplest possible way illuminating -things about prisoners and prison life. It is a book which should be -read by all legislators; it is true that the prison life it describes -is now obsolete. It deals with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span> convict life in the fifties, when -everything was far more antiquated, brutal and severe than it is now. -Yet although prisoners had to run the gauntlet between a regiment -of soldiers, and were sometimes beaten nearly to death, in spite of -the squalor of the prison and in spite of the dreariness and anguish -inseparable from their lives, the life of the prisoners stands out in -a positively favourable contrast to that which is led by our convicts -in what <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Chesterton calls our “clean and cruel prisons,” where our -prisoners pick oakum to-day in “separate” confinement. The proof of -this is that Dostoievsky was able to write one of the most beautiful -studies of human nature that have ever been written out of his prison -experience. In the first place, the prisoners enjoyed human fellowship. -They all had tobacco; they played cards; they could receive alms, and, -though this was more difficult, they could get wine. There were no -rules forbidding them to speak. Each prisoner had an occupation of his -own, a hobby, a trade, in which he occupied all his leisure time. Had -it not been for this, Dostoievsky says, the prisoners would have gone -mad. One wonders what they would think of an English prison, where the -prisoners are not even allowed to speak to each other. Such a régime -was and is and probably always will be perfectly unthinkable to a -Russian mind. Indeed<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span> this point reminds me of a startling phrase of a -Russian revolutionary, who had experiences of Russian prisons. He was -a member of the second Russian Duma; he had spent many years in prison -in Russia. In the winter of 1906 there was a socialistic conference -in London which he attended. When he returned to Russia he was asked -by his fellow-politicians to lecture on the liberty of English -institutions. He refused to do so. “A Russian,” he said, “is freer in -prison than an Englishman is at large.”</p> - -<p>The secret of the merit of this extraordinary book is also the secret -of the unique quality which we find in all Dostoievsky’s fiction. It -is this: Dostoievsky faces the truth; he faces what is bad, what is -worst, what is most revolting in human nature; he does not put on -blinkers and deny the existence of evil, like many English writers, -and he does not, like Zola, indulge in filthy analysis and erect out -of his beastly investigations a pseudo-scientific theory based on the -belief that all human nature is wholly bad. Dostoievsky analyses, not -in order to experiment on the patient and to satisfy his own curiosity, -but in order to cure and to comfort him. And having faced the evil and -recognised it, he proceeds to unearth the good from underneath it; and -he accepts the whole because of the good, and gives thanks for it. -He finds God’s image<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span> in the worst of the criminals, and shows it to -us, and for that reason this book is one of the most important books -ever written. Terrible as it is, and sad as it is, no one can read it -without feeling better and stronger and more hopeful. For Dostoievsky -proves to us—so far from complaining of his lot—that life in the Dead -House is not only worth living, but full of unsuspected and unexplored -riches, rare pearls of goodness, shining gems of kindness, and secret -springs of pity. He leaves prison with something like regret, and -he regards his four years’ experience there as a special boon of -Providence, the captain jewel of his life. He goes out saved for ever -from despair, and full of that wisdom more precious than rubies which -is to be found in the hearts of children.</p> - - -<h3>V<br /><i><span class="smcap">Crime and Punishment</span></i></h3> - -<p><i>Crime and Punishment</i> was published in 1866. It is a book which -brought Dostoievsky fame and popularity, and by which, in Europe at -any rate, he is still best known. It is the greatest tragedy about a -murderer that has been written since <i>Macbeth</i>.</p> - -<p>In the chapter on Tolstoy and Tourgeniev, I pointed out that the -Russian character could<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span> roughly be divided into two types, which -dominate the whole of Russian fiction, the two types being Lucifer, the -embodiment of invincible pride, and Ivan Durak, the wise fool. This is -especially true with regard to Dostoievsky’s novels. Nearly all the -most important characters in his books represent one or other of these -two types. Raskolnikov, the hero of <i>Crime and Punishment</i>, is the -embodiment of the Lucifer type, and the whole motive and mainspring of -his character is pride.</p> - -<p>Raskolnikov is a Nihilist in the true sense of the word, not a -political Nihilist nor an intellectual Nihilist like Tourgeniev’s -Bazarov, but a moral Nihilist; that is to say, a man who strives to act -without principle and to be unscrupulous, who desires to put himself -beyond and above human moral conventions. His idea is that if he can -trample on human conventions, he will be a sort of Napoleon. He goes -to pawn a jewel at an old woman pawnbroker’s, and the idea which is to -affect his whole future vaguely takes root in his mind, namely, that an -intelligent man, possessed of the fortune of this pawnbroker, could do -anything, and that the only necessary step is to suppress this useless -and positively harmful old woman. He thus expresses the idea later:</p> - -<p>“I used to put myself this question: If<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span> Napoleon had found himself -in my position and had not wherewith to begin his career, and there -was neither Toulon, nor Egypt, nor the passage of the Alps, and if -there were, instead of these splendid and monumental episodes, simply -some ridiculous old woman, a usurer whom he would have to kill in -order to get her money, would he shrink from doing this if there were -no other alternative, merely because it would not be a fine deed and -because it would be sinful? Now I tell you that I was possessed by this -problem for a long time, and that I felt deeply ashamed when I at last -guessed, suddenly as it were, that not only would he not be frightened -at the idea, but that the thought that the thing was not important -and grandiose enough would not even enter into his head: he would not -even understand where the need for hesitation lay; and if there were -no other way open to him, he would kill the woman without further -reflection. Well, I ceased reflecting, and I killed her, following the -example of my authority.”</p> - -<p>Raskolnikov is obsessed by the idea, just as Macbeth is obsessed by the -prophecy of the three witches, and circumstances seem to play the part -of Fate in a Greek tragedy, and to lead him against his will to commit -a horrible crime. “He is mechanically forced,” says Professor Brückner -in his <i>History of Russian Literature</i>, “into performing the act, -as if he had<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span> gone too near machinery in motion, had been caught by a -bit of his clothing, and cut to pieces.” As soon as he has killed the -old woman, he is fatally led into committing another crime immediately -after the first crime is committed. He thinks that by committing -this crime he will have trampled on human conventions, that he will -be above and beyond morality, a Napoleon, a Superman. The tragedy of -the book consists in his failure, and in his realising that he has -failed. Instead of becoming stronger than mankind, he becomes weaker -than mankind; instead of having conquered convention and morality, -he is himself vanquished by them. He finds that as soon as the crime -is committed the whole of his relation towards the world is changed, -and his life becomes a long struggle with himself, a revolt against -the moral consequences of his act. His instinct of self-preservation -is in conflict with the horror of what he has done and the need for -confession. Raskolnikov, as I have said, is the embodiment of pride; -pride is the mainspring of his character. He is proud enough to build -gigantic conceptions, to foster the ambition of placing himself above -and beyond humanity, but his character is not strong enough to bear the -load of his ideas. He thinks he has the makings of a great man in him, -and in order to prove this to himself he commits a crime that would put -an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span> ordinary man beyond the pale of humanity, because he thinks that -being an extraordinary man he will remain within the pale of humanity -and not suffer. His pride suffers a mortal blow when he finds that -he is weak, and that the moral consequences of his act face him at -every turn. He fights against this, he strives not to recognise it; he -deliberately seeks the company of detectives; he discusses murder and -murderers with them minutely, and with a recklessness which leads him -to the very brink of the precipice, when it would need but a word more -for him to betray himself. The examining magistrate, indeed, guesses -that he has committed the crime, and plays with him as a cat plays with -a mouse, being perfectly certain that in the long-run he will confess -of his own accord. The chapters which consist of the duel between these -two men are the most poignant in anguish which I have ever read. I have -seen two of these scenes acted on the stage, and several people in -the audience had hysterics before they were over. At last the moment -of expiation comes, though that of regeneration is still far distant. -Raskolnikov loves a poor prostitute named Sonia. His act, his murder, -has affected his love for Sonia, as it has affected the rest of his -life, and has charged it with a sullen despair. Sonia, who loves him -as the only man who has never treated her with contempt, sees that he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span> -has some great load on his mind, that he is tortured by some hidden -secret. She tries in vain to get him to tell her what it is, but at -last he comes to her with the intention of telling her, and she reads -the speaking secret in his eyes. As soon as she knows, she tells him -that he must kiss the earth which he has stained, and confess to the -whole world that he has committed murder. Then, she says, God will send -him a new life. At first he refuses: he says that society is worse than -he, that greater crimes than his are committed every day; that those -who commit them are highly honoured. Sonia speaks of his suffering, -and of the torture he will undergo by keeping his dread secret, but -he will not yet give in, nor admit that he is not a strong man, that -he is really a <em>louse</em>—which is the name he gives to all human -beings who are not “Supermen.” Sonia says that they must go to exile -together, and that by suffering <em>together</em> they will expiate his -deed. This is one of Dostoievsky’s principal ideas, or rather it is -the interpretation and conception of Christianity which you will most -frequently meet with among the Russian people,—that suffering is good -in itself, and especially suffering in common with some one else.</p> - -<p>After Raskolnikov has confessed his crime to Sonia, he still hovers -round and round the police, like a moth fatally attracted by a candle, -and at<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span> last he makes open confession, and is condemned to seven years’ -penal servitude. But although he has been defeated in the battle with -his idea, although he has not only failed, but failed miserably, even -after he has confessed his crime and is paying the penalty for it in -prison, his pride still survives. When he arrives in prison, it is not -the hardships of prison life, it is not the hard labour, the coarse -food, the shaven head, the convict’s dress, that weigh on his spirit; -nor does he feel remorse for his crime. But here once more in prison -he begins to criticise and reflect on his former actions, and finds -them neither foolish nor horrible as he did before. “In what,” he -thinks, “was my conception stupider than many conceptions and theories -which are current in the world? One need only look at the matter -from an independent standpoint, and with a point-of-view unbiased by -conventional ideas, and the idea will not seem so strange. And why does -my deed,” he thought to himself, “appear so ugly? In what way was it an -evil deed? My conscience is at rest. Naturally I committed a criminal -offence, I broke the letter of the law and I shed blood. Well, take -my head in return for the letter of the law and make an end of it! Of -course, even many of those men who have benefited mankind and who were -never satiated with power, after they had seized it for themselves, -ought to have been<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span> executed as soon as they had taken their first -step, but these people succeeded in taking further steps, and therefore -they are justified: I did not succeed, and therefore perhaps I had not -the right to take the first step.”</p> - -<p>Raskolnikov accordingly considered that his crime consisted solely in -this, that he was not strong enough to carry it through to the end, -and not strong enough not to confess it. He also tortured himself with -another thought: why did he not kill himself as soon as he recognised -the truth? Why did he prefer the weakness of confession?</p> - -<p>The other convicts in the prison disliked him, distrusted him, -and ended by hating him. Dostoievsky’s own experience of convict -life enables him in a short space to give us a striking picture of -Raskolnikov’s relations with the other convicts. He gradually becomes -aware of the vast gulf which there is between him and the others. The -class barrier which rises between him and them, is more difficult -to break down than that caused by a difference in nationality. At -the same time, he noticed that in the prison there were political -prisoners, Poles, for instance, and officers, who looked down on the -other convicts as though they were insects, ciphers of ignorance, and -despised them accordingly. But he is unable to do this, he cannot help -seeing that these ‘ciphers’ are far cleverer<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span> in many cases than the -men who look down on them. On the other hand, he is astonished that -they all love Sonia, who has followed him to the penal settlement -where his prison is, and lives in the town. The convicts rarely see -her, meeting her only from time to time at their work; and yet they -adore her, because she has followed Raskolnikov. The hatred of the -other convicts against him grows so strong that one day at Easter, when -he goes to church with them, they turn on him and say: “You have no -right to go to church: you do not believe in God, you are an atheist, -you ought to be killed.” He had never spoken with them of God or of -religion, and yet they wished to kill him as an atheist. He only -narrowly escaped being killed by the timely interference of a sentry. -To the truth of this incident I can testify by personal experience, as -I have heard Russian peasants and soldiers say that such and such a -man was religious and that such and such a man was “godless,” although -these men had never mentioned religion to them; and they were always -right.</p> - -<p>Then Raskolnikov fell ill and lay for some time in delirium in the -hospital. After his recovery he learns that Sonia has fallen ill -herself, and has not been near the prison, and a great sadness comes -over him. At last she recovers, and he meets her one day at his<span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span> work. -Something melts in his heart, he knows not how or why; he falls at her -feet and cries; and from that moment a new life begins for him. His -despair has rolled away like a cloud: his heart has risen as though -from the dead.</p> - -<p><i>Crime and Punishment</i>, the best known of all Dostoievsky’s works, -is certainly the most powerful. The anguish of mind which Raskolnikov -goes through tortures the reader. Dostoievsky seems to have touched -the extreme limit of suffering which the human soul can experience -when it descends into hell. At the same time, he never seems to be -gloating over the suffering, but, on the contrary, to be revealing the -agonies of the human spirit in order to pour balm upon them. There is -an episode earlier in the story, when Raskolnikov kneels down before -Sonia, and speaks words which might be taken as the motto of this book, -and indeed of nearly all of Dostoievsky’s books: “It is not before you -that I am kneeling, but before all the suffering of mankind.”</p> - -<p>It is in this book more than in any of his other books that one has -the feeling that Dostoievsky is kneeling down before the great agonies -that the human soul can endure: and in doing this, he teaches us how to -endure and how to hope. Apart from the astounding analysis to be found -in the book, and the terrible network of details of which the conflict -between Raskolnikov and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span> his obsession consists: apart from the duel -of tongues between the examining magistrate, who is determined that -the criminal shall be condemned, not on account of any circumstantial -evidence, but by his own confession, and who drives the criminal to -confession by playing upon his obsession: apart from all this main -action, there is a wealth of minor characters, episodes and scenes, -all of which are indispensable to the main thread of tragedy which -runs through the whole. The book, as has been pointed out, did not -receive anything like its full recognition in 1866 when it appeared, -and now, in 1909, it stands higher in the estimation of all those who -are qualified to judge it than it did then. This can be said of very -few books published in Europe in the sixties. For all the so-called -psychological and analytical novels which have been published since -1866 in France and in England not only seem pale and lifeless compared -with Dostoievsky’s fierce revelations, but not one of them has a drop -of his large humanity, or a breath of his fragrant goodness.</p> - - -<h3>VI<br /><i><span class="smcap">The Idiot</span></i></h3> - - -<p>Although <i>Crime and Punishment</i> is the most powerful, and probably -the most popular of Dostoievsky’s books, I do not think it is the -most<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span> characteristic; that is to say, I do not think it possesses in -so high a degree those qualities which are peculiar to his genius. -More characteristic still is <i>The Idiot</i>, in the main character -of which the very soul and spirit of Dostoievsky breathe and live. The -hero of <i>The Idiot</i>, Prince Mwishkin, is the type of Ivan Durak, -the simple fool who by his simplicity outwits the wisdom of the wise.</p> - -<p>We make his acquaintance in a third-class railway carriage of the train -which is arriving at St. Petersburg from Warsaw. He is a young man -about twenty-six years old, with thick fair hair, sloping shoulders, -and a very slight fair beard; his eyes are large, light-blue, and -penetrating; in his expression there is something tranquil but -burdensome, something of that strange look which enables physicians -to recognise at a first glance a victim of the falling sickness. In -his hand he is carrying a bundle made of old <i>foulard</i>, which is -his whole luggage. A fellow-traveller enters into conversation with -him. He answers with unusual alacrity. Being asked whether he has -been absent long, he says that it is over four years since he was in -Russia, that he was sent abroad on account of his health—on account -of some strange nervous illness like St. Vitus’ dance. As he listens, -his fellow-traveller laughs several times, and especially<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span> when to the -question, “Did they cure you?” the fair-haired man answers, “No, they -did not cure me.” The dark-haired man is Rogozhin, a merchant. These -two characters are the two figures round which the drama of the book -centres and is played.</p> - -<p>The purpose of Prince Mwishkin in coming to St. Petersburg is to find -a distant relation of his, the wife of a General Epanchin. He has -already written to her from Switzerland, but has received no answer. -He presents himself at the general’s house with his bundle. A man in -livery opens the door and regards him with suspicion. At last, after he -has explained clearly and at some length that he is Prince Mwishkin, -and that it is necessary for him to see the general on important -business, the servant leads him into a small front-hall into which the -anteroom (where guests are received) of the general’s study opens. -He delivers him into the hands of another servant who is dressed in -black. This man tells the prince to wait in the anteroom and to leave -his bundle in the front-hall. He sits down in his armchair and looks -with severe astonishment at the prince, who, instead of taking the -suggestion, sits down beside him on a chair, with his bundle in his -hands.</p> - -<p>“If you will allow me,” said the prince, “I<span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span> would rather wait here -with you. What should I do there alone?”</p> - -<p>“The hall,” answered the servant, “is not the place for you, because -you are a visitor, or in other words, a guest. You wish to see the -general himself?” The servant obviously could not reconcile himself -with the idea of showing in such a visitor, and decided to question him -further.</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have come on business,” began the prince.</p> - -<p>“I do not ask you what is your business. My business is simply to -announce you. But without asking the secretary I said I would not -announce you.” The suspicions of the servant continually seemed to -increase. The prince was so unlike the ordinary run of everyday -visitors. “... You are, so to speak, from abroad?” asked the servant -at last, and hesitated as if he wished to say, “You are really Prince -Mwishkin?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I have this moment come from the train. I think that you wished -to ask me whether I am really Prince Mwishkin, and that you did not ask -me out of politeness.”</p> - -<p>“H’m!” murmured the astonished servant.</p> - -<p>“I assure you that I was not telling lies, and that you will not get -into trouble on account of me. That I am dressed as I am and carrying -a bundle like this is not astonishing, for at the present moment my -circumstances are not flourishing.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span></p> - -<p>“H’m! I am not afraid of that. You see I am obliged to announce you, -and the secretary will come to see you unless ... the matter is like -this: You have not come to beg from the general, may I be so bold as to -ask?”</p> - -<p>“Oh no, you may rest assured of that. I have come on other business.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me. Please wait for the secretary; he is busy....”</p> - -<p>“Very well. If I shall have to wait long I should like to ask you -whether I might smoke. I have a pipe and some tobacco.”</p> - -<p>“Smoke!” The servant looked at him with contempt, as if he could not -believe his ears. “Smoke? No, you cannot smoke here. And what is more, -you should be ashamed of thinking of such a thing. Well, this is queer!”</p> - -<p>“I did not mean in this room, but I would go somewhere if you would -show me, because I am accustomed to it, and I have not smoked now for -three hours. But as you like.”</p> - -<p>“Now, how shall I announce you?” murmured the servant as though almost -unwillingly to himself. “In the first place you ought not to be here, -but in the anteroom, because you are a visitor, that is to say, a -guest, and I am responsible. Have you come to live here?” he asked, -looking again at the prince’s bundle, which evidently disturbed him.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span></p> - -<p>“No, I don’t think so; even if they invited me, I should not stay. I -have simply come to make acquaintance, nothing more.”</p> - -<p>“How do you mean, to make acquaintance?” the servant asked, with -trebled suspicion and astonishment. “You said at first that you had -come on business.”</p> - -<p>“Well, it’s not exactly business; that is to say, if you like, it -<em>is</em> business,—it is only to ask advice. But the chief thing is -that I have come to introduce myself, because I and the general’s wife -are both descendants from the Mwishkins, and besides myself there are -no Mwishkins left.”</p> - -<p>“So, what’s more you are a relation!” said the frightened servant.</p> - -<p>“No, not exactly a relation,—that is to say, if you go back far -enough, we are, of course, relations; but so far back that it doesn’t -count! I wrote to the general’s wife a letter from abroad, but she -did not answer me. All the same, I considered it necessary to make -her acquaintance as soon as I arrived. I am explaining all this to -you so that you should not have any doubts, because I see that you -are disquieted. Announce that it is Prince Mwishkin, and that will be -enough to explain the object of my visit. If they will see me, all will -be well. If they do not, very likely all will be well too. But I don’t -think they<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span> can help receiving me, because the general’s wife will -naturally wish to see the oldest, indeed the only representative of her -family; and she is most particular about keeping up relations with her -family, as I have heard.”</p> - -<p>“The conversation of the prince seemed as simple as possible, but the -simpler it was, the more absurd it became under the circumstances; and -the experienced footman could not help feeling something which was -perfectly right between man and man, and utterly wrong between man -and servant. Servants are generally far cleverer than their masters -think, and this one thought that two things might be possible; either -the prince had come to ask for money, or that he was simply a fool -without ambition,—because an ambitious prince would not remain in the -front-hall talking of his affairs with a footman, and would he not -probably be responsible and to blame in either the one case or the -other?”</p> - -<p>I have quoted this episode, which occurs in the second chapter of -the book, in full, because in it the whole character of the prince -is revealed. He is the wise fool. He suffers from epilepsy, and this -“sacred” illness which has fallen on him has destroyed all those parts -of the intellect out of which our faults grow, such as irony, arrogance -and egoism. He is absolutely simple. He has the brains of a man, the -tenderness of a woman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span> and the heart of a child. He knows nothing -of any barriers, either of class or character. He is the same and -absolutely himself with every one he meets. And yet his unsuspicious -<i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">naïveté</i>, his untarnished sincerity and simplicity, are combined -with penetrating intuition, so that he can read other people’s minds -like a book.</p> - -<p>The general receives him, and he is just as frank and simple with -the general as he has been with the servant. He is entirely without -means, and has nothing in the world save his little bundle. The general -inquires whether his handwriting is good, and resolves to get him some -secretarial work; he gives him 25 roubles, and arranges that the prince -shall live in his secretary’s house. The general makes the prince stay -for luncheon, and introduces him to his family. The general’s wife -is a charming, rather childish person, and she has three daughters, -Alexandra, Adelaide and Aglaia. The prince astonishes them very much -by his simplicity. They cannot quite understand at first whether he is -a child or a knave, but his simplicity conquers them. After they have -talked of various matters, his life in Switzerland, the experiences of -a man condemned to death, which had been related to him and which I -have already quoted, an execution which he had witnessed, one of the -girls asks him if he was ever in love.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span></p> - -<p>“No,” he says, “I have never been in love ... I was happy otherwise.”</p> - -<p>“How was that?” they ask.</p> - -<p>Then he relates the following: “Where I was living they were all -children, and I spent all my time with the children, and only with -them. They were the children of the village; they all went to school. I -never taught them, there was a schoolmaster for that.... I perhaps did -teach them too, in a way, for I was more with them, and all the four -years that I spent there went in this way. I had need of nothing else. -I told them everything, I kept nothing secret from them. Their fathers -and relations were angry with me because at last the children could not -do without me, and always came round me in crowds, and the schoolmaster -in the end became my greatest enemy. I made many enemies there, all -on account of the children. And what were they afraid of? You can -tell a child everything—everything. I have always been struck by the -thought of how ignorant grown-up people are of children, how ignorant -even fathers and mothers are of their own children. You should conceal -nothing from children under the pretext that they are small, and that -it is too soon for them to know. That is a sad, an unhappy thought. -And how well children themselves understand that their fathers are -thinking they are too small and do not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span> understand anything—when they -really understand everything. Grown-up people do not understand that a -child even in the most difficult matter can give extremely important -advice. Heavens! when one of these lovely little birds looks up at you, -confiding and happy, it is a shame to deceive it. I call them birds -because there is nothing better than birds in the world. To go on with -my story, the people in the village were most angry with me because of -one thing: the schoolmaster simply envied me. At first he shook his -head, and wondered how the children understood everything I told them, -and almost nothing of what he told them. Then he began to laugh at me -when I said to him that we could neither of us teach them anything, but -that they could teach us. And how could he envy me and slander me when -he himself lived with children? Children heal the soul.”</p> - -<p>Into the character of the hero of this book Dostoievsky has put all the -sweetness of his nature, all his sympathy with the unfortunate, all -his pity for the sick, all his understanding and love of children. The -character of Prince Mwishkin reflects all that is best in Dostoievsky. -He is a portrait not of what Dostoievsky was, but of what the author -would like to have been. It must not for a moment be thought that -he imagined that he fulfilled this ideal: he was well<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span> aware of -his faults: of the sudden outbursts and the seething deeps of his -passionate nature; his capacity for rage, hatred, jealousy and envy; -none the less Dostoievsky could not possibly have created the character -of Prince Mwishkin, the Idiot, had he not been made of much the same -substance himself.</p> - -<p>All through Dostoievsky’s books, whenever children are mentioned or -appear, the pages breathe a kind of freshness and fragrance like that -of lilies-of-the-valley. Whatever he says about children or whatever -he makes them say, has the rare accent of truth. The smile of children -lights up the dark pages of his books, like spring flowers growing at -the edge of a dark abyss.</p> - -<p>In strong contrast to the character of the prince is the merchant -Rogozhin. He is the incarnation of the second type, that of the -obdurate spirit, which I have already said dominates Dostoievsky’s -novels. He is, perhaps, less proud than Raskolnikov, but he is far -stronger, more passionate and more vehement. His imperious and -unfettered nature is handicapped by no weakness of nerves, no sapping -self-analysis. He is undisciplined and centrifugal. He is not “sicklied -o’er with the pale cast of thought,” but it is his passions and not his -ideas which are too great for the vessel that contains<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span> them. Rogozhin -loves Nastasia, a <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">hetaira</i>, who has likewise unbridled passions -and impulses. He loves her with all the strength of his violent and -undisciplined nature, and he is tormented by jealousy because she does -not love him, although she cannot help submitting to the influence of -his imperious personality. The jealous poison in him takes so complete -a possession of his body and soul that he ultimately kills Nastasia -almost immediately after she has married him and given herself to him, -because he feels that she is never his own, least of all at the moment -when she abandons herself to him for ever. So great is his passion, -that this woman, even while hating him, cannot resist going to him -against her will, knowing well that he will kill her.</p> - -<p>The description of the night that follows this murder, when Rogozhin -talks all night with the prince in front of the bed where Nastasia is -lying dead, is by its absence of melodrama and its simplicity perhaps -the most icily terrible piece of writing that Dostoievsky ever penned. -The reason why Nastasia does not love Rogozhin is that she loves Prince -Mwishkin, the Idiot, and so does the third daughter of the general, -Aglaia, although he gives them nothing but pity, and never makes love -to them. And here we come to the root-idea and the kernel of the book, -which is the influence which the Idiot exercises on everybody with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span> -whom he comes in contact. Dostoievsky places him in a nest of rascals, -scoundrels and villains, a world of usurers, liars and thieves, -interested, worldly, ambitious and shady. He not only passes unscathed -through all this den of evil, but the most deadly weapons of the -wicked, their astuteness, their cunning and their fraud, are utterly -powerless against his very simplicity, and there is not one of these -people, however crusted with worldliness, however sordid or bad, who -can evade his magical influence. The women at first laugh at him; but -in the end, as I have already said, he becomes a cardinal factor in the -life of both Nastasia the unbridled and passionate woman, and Aglaia -the innocent and intelligent girl: so much so that they end by joining -in a battle of wild jealousy over him, although he himself is naïvely -unconscious of the cause of their dispute.</p> - -<p>This book, more than any other, reveals to us the methods and the -art of Dostoievsky. This method and this art are not unlike those of -Charlotte Brontë. The setting of the picture, the accessories, are -fantastic, sometimes to the verge of impossibility, and this no more -matters than the fantastic setting of <i>Jane Eyre</i> matters. All we -see and all we feel is the white flame of light that burns throughout -the book. We no more care whether a man like General Epanchin could -or could not have existed, or whether the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span> circumstances of his life -are possible or impossible than we care whether the friends of <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> -Rochester are possible or impossible. Such things seem utterly trivial -in this book, where at every moment we are allowed to look deep down -into the very depths of human nature, to look as it were on the spirit -of man and woman naked and unashamed. For though the setting may be -fantastic if not impossible, though we may never have seen such people -in our lives, they are truer than life in a way: we seem to see right -inside every one of these characters as though they had been stripped -of everything which was false and artificial about them, as though they -were left with nothing but their bared souls, as they will be at the -Day of Judgment.</p> - -<p>With regard to the artistic construction of the book, the method is -the same as that of most of Dostoievsky’s books. In nearly all his -works the book begins just before a catastrophe and occupies the space -of a few days. And yet the book is very long. It is entirely taken -up by conversation and explanation of the conversation. There are no -descriptions of nature; everything is in a dialogue. Directly one -character speaks we hear the tone of his voice. There are no “stage -directions.” We are not told that so and so is such and such a person, -we feel it and recognise it from the very first word he says. On the -other<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span> hand, there is a great deal of analysis, but it is never of an -unnecessary kind. Dostoievsky never nudges our elbow, never points -out to us things which we know already, but he illuminates with a -strong searchlight the deeps of the sombre and tortuous souls of his -characters, by showing us what they are themselves thinking, but not -what he thinks of them. His analysis resembles the Greek chorus, and -his books resemble Greek tragedies in the making, rich ore mingled with -dark dross, granite and marble, the stuff out of which Æschylus could -have hewn another <i>Agamemnon</i>, or Shakespeare have written another -<i>King Lear</i>.</p> - -<p><i>The Idiot</i> may not be the most artistic of all his books, in the -sense that it is not centralised and is often diffuse, which is not -the case with <i>Crime and Punishment</i>, but it is perhaps the most -characteristic, the most personal, for none but Dostoievsky could have -invented and caused to live such a character as Prince Mwishkin, and -made him positively radiate goodness and love.</p> - - -<h3>VII<br /><i><span class="smcap">The Possessed</span></i></h3> - - -<p><i>The Possessed</i>, or <i>Devils</i>, which is the literal -translation of the Russian title, is perhaps inferior<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span> to Dostoievsky’s -other work as a whole, but in one sense it is the most interesting -book which he ever wrote. There are two reasons for this: in the first -place, his qualities and his defects as a writer are seen in this book -intensified, under a magnifying glass as it were, at their extremes, so -that it both gives you an idea of the furthest range of his powers, and -shows you most clearly the limitations of his genius. Stevenson points -out somewhere that this is the case with Victor Hugo’s least successful -novels. In the second place, the book was far in advance of its time. -In it Dostoievsky shows that he possessed “a prophetic soul.”</p> - -<p>The book deals with the Nihilists who played a prominent part in the -sixties. The explanation of the title is to be found in a quotation -from the 8th chapter of St. Luke’s Gospel.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p>“And there was there an herd of many swine feeding on the mountain; -and they besought Him that He would suffer them to enter into them. -And He suffered them. Then went the devils out of the man and entered -into the swine: and the herd ran violently down a steep place into the -lake and were choked. When they that fed them saw what was done, they -fled, and went and told it in the city and in the country.</p> - -<p>“Then they went out to see what was done; and came to Jesus, and found -the man out of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span> whom the devils were departed, sitting at the feet of -Jesus, clothed, and in his right mind; and they were afraid. They also -which saw it, told them by what means he that was possessed of the -devils, was healed.”</p> -</div> - -<p>The book, as I have said, undoubtedly reveals Dostoievsky’s powers at -their highest pitch, in the sense that nowhere in the whole range of -his work do we find such isolated scenes of power; scenes which are, so -to speak, white hot with the fire of his soul; and characters in which -he has concentrated the whole dæmonic force of his personality, and the -whole blinding strength of his insight. On the other hand, it shows us, -as I added, more clearly than any other of his books, the nature and -the extent of his limitations. It is almost too full of characters and -incidents; the incidents are crowded together in an incredibly short -space of time, the whole action of the book, which is a remarkably long -one, occupying only the space of a few days, while to the description -of one morning enough space is allotted to make a bulky English novel. -Again, the narrative is somewhat disconnected. You can sometimes -scarcely see the wood for the trees. Of course, these objections are in -a sense hypercritical, because, as far as my experience goes, any one -who takes up this book finds it impossible to put it down until he has -read it to the very end, so<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span> enthralling is the mere interest of the -story, so powerful the grip of the characters. I therefore only suggest -these criticisms for those who wish to form an idea of the net result -of Dostoievsky’s artistic scope and achievement.</p> - -<p>With regard to the further point, the “prophetic soul” which speaks -in this book is perhaps that which is its most remarkable quality. -The book was some thirty years ahead of its time: ahead of its time -in the same way that Wagner’s music was ahead of its time,—and this -was not only on account of the characters and the state of things -which it divined and foreshadowed, but also on account of the ideas -and the flashes of philosophy which abound in its pages. When the book -was published, it was treated as a gross caricature, and even a few -years ago, when Professor Brückner first published his <i>History of -Russian Literature</i>, he talked of this book as being a satire not -of Nihilism itself, but of the hangers-on, the camp-followers which -accompany every army. “Dostoievsky,” he says, “did not paint the -heroes but the Falstaffs, the silly adepts, the half and wholly crazed -adherents of Nihilism. He was indeed fully within his rights. Of course -there were such Nihilists, particularly between 1862 and 1869, but -there were not only such: even Nechaev, the prototype of Petrushka, -impressed us by a steel-like energy and a hatred for the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span> upper classes -which we wholly miss in the wind-bag and intriguer Petrushka.”</p> - -<p>There is a certain amount of truth in this criticism. It is true -that Dostoievsky certainly painted the Falstaffs and the half-crazy -adherents of Nihilism. But I am convinced that the reason he did not -paint the heroes was that he did not believe in their existence: he -did not believe that the heroes of Nihilism were heroes; this is plain -not only from this book, but from every line which he wrote about the -people who played a part in the revolutionary movement in Russia; and -so far from the leading personage in his book being merely a wind-bag, -I would say that one is almost more impressed by the steel-like energy -of the character, as drawn in this book, than by the sayings and doings -of his prototype—or rather his prototypes in real life. The amazing -thing is that even if a few years ago real life had not furnished -examples of revolutionaries as extreme both in their energy and in -their craziness as Dostoievsky paints them, real life has done so in -the last four years. Therefore, Dostoievsky not only saw with prophetic -divination that should circumstances in Russia ever lead to a general -upheaval, such characters might arise and exercise an influence, but -his prophetic insight has actually been justified by the facts.</p> - -<p>As soon as such circumstances arose, as<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span> they did after the Japanese -War of 1904, characters such as Dostoievsky depicted immediately came -to the front and played a leading part. When M. de Vogüé published his -book, <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Roman Russe</i>, in speaking of <i>The Possessed</i>, he -said that he had assisted at several of the trials of Anarchists in -1871, and he added that many of the men who came up for trial, and many -of the crimes of which they were accused, were identical reproductions -of the men and the crimes imagined by the novelist. If this was true -when applied to the revolutionaries of 1871, it is a great deal truer -applied to those of 1904-1909. That Dostoievsky believed that this -would happen, I think there can be no doubt. Witness the following -passage:</p> - -<p>“Chigalev,” says the leading character of <i>The Possessed</i>, -speaking of one of his revolutionary disciples, a man with long ears, -“is a man of genius: a genius in the manner of Fourier, but bolder -and cleverer. He has invented ‘equality.’ In his system, every member -of society has an eye on every one else. To tell tales is a duty. The -individual belongs to the community and the community belongs to the -individual. All are slaves and equal in their bondage. Calumny and -assassination can be used in extreme cases, but the most important -thing is equality. The first necessity is to lower the level of culture -science<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span> and talent. A high scientific level is only accessible to -superior intellects, and we don’t want superior intellects. Men gifted -with high capacities have always seized upon power and become despots. -Highly gifted men cannot help being despots, and have always done more -harm than good. They must be exiled or executed. Cicero’s tongue must -be cut out, Copernicus’ eyes must be blinded, Shakespeare must be -stoned. That is Chigalevism. Slaves must be equal. Without despotism, -up to the present time, neither liberty nor equality has existed, but -in a herd, equality should reign supreme,—and that is Chigalevism.... -I am all for Chigalevism. Down with instruction and science! There -is enough of it, as it is, to last thousands of years, but we must -organise obedience: it is the only thing which is wanting in the world. -The desire for culture is an aristocratic desire. As soon as you -admit the idea of the family or of love, you will have the desire for -personal property. We will annihilate this desire: we will let loose -drunkenness, slander, tale-telling, and unheard-of debauchery. We will -strangle every genius in his cradle. We will reduce everything to the -same denomination, complete equality. ‘We have learnt a trade, and -we are honest men: we need nothing else.’ Such was the answer which -some English workman made the other day. The<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span> indispensable alone is -indispensable. Such will thenceforth be the watchword of the world, -but we must have upheavals. We will see to that, we the governing -class. The slaves must have leaders. Complete obedience, absolute -impersonality, but once every thirty years Chigalev will bring about -an upheaval, and men will begin to devour each other: always up to a -given point, so that we may not be bored. Boredom is an aristocratic -sensation, and in Chigalevism there will be no desires. We will reserve -for ourselves desire and suffering, and for the slaves there will be -Chigalevism.... We will begin by fermenting disorder; we will reach -the people itself. Do you know that we are already terribly strong? -those who belong to us are not only the men who murder and set fire, -who commit injuries after the approved fashion, and who bite: these -people are only in the way. I do not understand anything unless there -be discipline. I myself am a scoundrel, but I am not a Socialist. Ha, -ha! listen! I have counted them all: the teacher who laughs with the -children whom he teaches, at their God and at their cradle, belongs -to us; the barrister who defends a well-educated assassin by proving -that he is more educated than his victims, and that in order to get -money he was obliged to kill, belongs to us; the schoolboy who in -order to experience a sharp sensation kills<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span> a peasant, belongs to -us; the juries who systematically acquit all criminals, belong to us; -the judge who at the tribunal is afraid of not showing himself to be -sufficiently liberal, belongs to us; among the administrators, among -the men of letters, a great number belong to us, and they do not know -it themselves. On the other hand, the obedience of schoolboys and fools -has reached its zenith. Everywhere you see an immeasurable vanity, -and bestial, unheard-of appetites. Do you know how much we owe to -the theories in vogue at present alone? When I left Russia, Littré’s -thesis, which likens crime to madness, was the rage. I return, and -crime is already no longer considered even as madness: it is considered -as common sense itself, almost a duty, at least a noble protest. ‘Why -should not an enlightened man kill if he has need of money?’ Such is -the argument you hear. But that is nothing. The Russian God has ceded -his place to drink. The people are drunk, the mothers are drunk, the -children are drunk, the churches are empty. Oh, let this generation -grow: it is a pity we cannot wait. They would be drunk still. Ah, what -a pity that we have no proletariat! But it will come, it will come. The -moment is drawing near.”</p> - -<p>In this declaration of revolutionary faith, Dostoievsky has -concentrated the whole of an<span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span> ideal on which thousands of ignorant men -in Russia have acted during the last three years. All of the so-called -Hooliganism which came about in Russia after the war, which although -it has greatly diminished has by no means yet been exterminated by a -wholesale system of military court-martials, proceeds from this, and -its adepts are conscious or unconscious disciples of this creed. For -the proletariat which Dostoievsky foresaw is now a living fact, and -a great part of it has been saturated with such ideas. Not all of -it, of course. I do not for a moment mean to say that every ordinary -Russian social-democrat fosters such ideas; but what I do mean to say -is that these ideas exist and that a great number of men have acted on -a similar creed which they have only half digested, and have sunk into -ruin, ruining others in doing so, and have ended by being hanged.</p> - -<p>Thus the book, <i>Devils</i>, which, when it appeared in 1871, was -thought a piece of gross exaggeration, and which had not been out -long before events began to show that it was less exaggerated than -it appeared at first sight—has in the last three years, and even in -this year of grace, received further justification by events such -as the rôle that Father Gapon played in the revolutionary movement, -and the revelations which have been lately made with regard to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span> Azev -and similar characters. Any one who finds difficulty in believing a -story such as that which came to light through the Azev revelations, -had better read <i>The Possessed</i>. It will throw an illuminating -light on the motives that cause such men to act as they do, and the -circumstances that produce such men.</p> - -<p>The main idea of the book is to show that the whole strength of what -were then the Nihilists and what are now the Revolutionaries,—let us -say the Maximalists,—lies, not in lofty dogmas and theories held by -a vast and splendidly organised community, but simply in the strength -of character of one or two men, and in the peculiar weakness of the -common herd. I say the peculiar weakness with intention. It does not -follow that the common herd, to which the majority of the revolutionary -disciples belong, is necessarily altogether weak, but that though the -men of whom it is composed may be strong and clever in a thousand ways, -they have one peculiar weakness, which is, indeed, a common weakness -of the Russian character. But before going into this question, it is -advisable first to say that what Dostoievsky shows in his book, <i>The -Possessed</i>, is that these Nihilists are almost entirely devoid of -ideas; the organisations round which so many legends gather, consist in -reality of only a few local clubs,—in this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span> particular case, of one -local club. All the talk of central committees, executive committees, -and so forth, existed only in the imagination of the leaders. On the -other hand, the character of those few men who were the leaders and who -dominated their disciples, was as strong as steel and as cold as ice. -And what Dostoievsky shows is how this peculiar strength of the leaders -exercised itself on the peculiar weakness of the disciples. Let us now -turn to the peculiar nature of this weakness. Dostoievsky explains it -at the very beginning of the book. In describing one of the characters, -Chatov, who is an unwilling disciple of the Nihilist leaders, he says:</p> - -<p>“He is one of those Russian Idealists whom any strong idea strikes -all of a sudden, and on the spot annihilates his will, sometimes for -ever. They are never able to react against the idea. They believe in -it passionately, and the rest of their life passes as though they were -writhing under a stone which was crushing them.”</p> - -<p>The leading figure of the book is one Peter Verkhovensky, a political -agitator. He is unscrupulous, ingenious, and plausible in the highest -degree, as clever as a fiend, a complete egotist, boundlessly -ambitious, untroubled by conscience, and as hard as steel. His -prototype was Nachaef, an actual Nihilist. The ambition of this man is -to create disorder, and disorder once created,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span> to seize the authority -which must ultimately arise out of any disorder. His means of effecting -this is as ingenious as Chichikov’s method of disposing of “dead -souls” in Gogol’s masterpiece. By imagining a central committee, of -which he is the representative, he organises a small local committee, -consisting of five men called “the Fiver”; and he persuades his dupes -that a network of similar small committees exists all over Russia. He -aims at getting the local committee entirely into his hands, and making -the members of it absolute slaves to his will. His ultimate aim is to -create similar committees all over the country, persuading people in -every new place that the network is ready everywhere else, and that -they are all working in complete harmony and in absolute obedience to -a central committee, which is somewhere abroad, and which in reality -does not exist. This once accomplished, his idea is to create disorder -among the peasants or the masses, and in the general upheaval to seize -the power. It is possible that I am defining his aim too closely, since -in the book one only sees his work, so far as one local committee is -concerned. But it is clear from his character that he has some big idea -at the back of his head. He is not merely dabbling with excitement in a -small local sphere, for all the other characters in the book, however -much they hate him, are agreed about one thing;<span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span> that in his cold and -self-seeking character there lies an element of sheer enthusiasm. -The manner in which he creates disciples out of his immediate -surroundings, and obtains an unbounded influence over them, is by -playing on the peculiar weakness which I have already quoted as being -the characteristic of Chigalevism. He plays on the one-sidedness of the -Russian character; he plays on the fact that directly one single idea -takes possession of the brain of a certain kind of Russian idealist, as -in the case of Chatov, or Raskolnikov, for instance, he is no longer -able to control it. Peter works on this. He also works on the vanity of -his disciples, and on their fear of not being thought advanced enough.</p> - -<p>“The principal strength,” he says on one occasion, “the cement which -binds everything, is the fear of public opinion, the fear of having -an opinion of one’s own. It is with just such people that success is -possible. I tell you they would throw themselves into the fire if I -told them to do so, if I ordered it. I would only have to say that -they were bad Liberals. I have been blamed for having deceived my -associates here in speaking of a central committee and of ‘innumerable -ramifications.’ But where is the deception? The central committee is -you and me. As to the ramifications, I can have as many as you wish.”</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span></p> - -<p>But as Peter’s plans advance, this cement, consisting of vanity and the -fear of public opinion, is not sufficient for him; he wants a stronger -bond to bind his disciples together, and to keep them under his own -immediate and exclusive control; and such a bond must be one of blood. -He therefore persuades his committee that one of their members, Chatov, -to whom I have already alluded, is a spy. This is easy, because Chatov -is a member of the organisation against his will. He became involved -in the business when he was abroad, in Switzerland; and on the first -possible occasion he says he will have nothing to do with any Nihilist -propaganda, since he is absolutely opposed to it, being a convinced -Slavophil and a hater of all acts of violence. Peter lays a trap for -him. At a meeting of the committee he asks every one of those present -whether, should they be aware that a political assassination were about -to take place, they would denounce the man who was to perform it. With -one exception all answer no, that they would denounce an ordinary -assassin, but that political assassination is not murder. When the -question is put to Chatov he refuses to answer. Peter tells the others -that this is the proof that he is a spy, and that he must be made away -with. His object is that they should kill Chatov, and thenceforth be -bound to him by fear of each other and of him. He has a further plan -for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span> attributing the guilt of Chatov’s murder to another man. He has -come across an engineer named Kirilov. This man is also possessed by -one idea, in the same manner as Raskolnikov and Chatov, only that, -unlike them, his character is strong. His idea is practically that -enunciated many years later by Nietzsche, that of the Superman. Kirilov -is a maniac: the single idea which in his case has taken possession of -him is that of suicide. There are two prejudices, he reasons, which -prevent man committing suicide. One of them is insignificant, the other -very serious, but the insignificant reason is not without considerable -importance: it is the fear of pain. In exposing his idea he argues that -were a stone the size of a six-storied house to be suspended over a -man, he would know that the fall of the stone would cause him no pain, -yet he would instinctively dread its fall, as causing extreme pain. As -long as that stone remained suspended over him, he would be in terror -lest it should cause him pain by its fall, and no one, not even the -most scientific of men, could escape this impression. Complete liberty -will come about only when it will be immaterial to man whether he lives -or not: that is the aim.</p> - -<p>The second cause and the most serious one that prevents men from -committing suicide, is the idea of another world. For the sake of -clearness I will here quote Kirilov’s conversation on this<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span> subject -with the narrator of the story, which is told in the first person:</p> - -<p>“... That is to say, punishment?” says his interlocutor.</p> - -<p>“No, that is nothing—simply the idea of another world.”</p> - -<p>“Are there not atheists who already disbelieve in another world?”</p> - -<p>Kirilov was silent.</p> - -<p>“You perhaps judge by yourself.”</p> - -<p>“Every man can judge only by himself,” said Kirilov, blushing. -“Complete liberty will come about when it will be entirely immaterial -to man whether he lives or whether he dies: that is the aim of -everything.”</p> - -<p>“The aim? Then nobody will be able or will wish to live.”</p> - -<p>“Nobody,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Man fears death, and therefore loves life,” I remarked. “That is how I -understand the matter, and thus has Nature ordained.”</p> - -<p>“That is a base idea, and therein lies the whole imposture. Life is -suffering, life is fear, and man is unhappy. Everything now is in pain -and terror. Man loves life now, because he loves pain and terror. Thus -has he been made. Man gives his life now for pain and fear, and therein -lies the whole imposture. Man is not at present what he ought to be. -A new man will rise, happy and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span> proud, to whom it will be immaterial -whether he lives or dies. That will be the new man. He who vanquishes -pain and fear, he will be God, and the other gods will no longer exist.”</p> - -<p>“Then, according to you, the other God does exist?”</p> - -<p>“He exists without existing. In the stone there is no pain, but in the -fear of the stone there is pain. God is the pain which arises from the -fear of death. He who vanquishes the pain and the fear, he will be God. -Then there will be a new life, a new man, everything new. Then history -will be divided into two parts. From the gorilla to the destruction of -God, and from the destruction of God to....”</p> - -<p>“To the gorilla ...?”</p> - -<p>“To the physical transformation of man and of the world. Man will be -God, and will be transformed physically.”</p> - -<p>“How do you think man will be transformed physically?”</p> - -<p>“The transformation will take place in the world, in thought, -sentiments, and actions.”</p> - -<p>“If it will be immaterial to men whether they live or die, then men -will all kill each other. That is perhaps the form the transformation -will take?”</p> - -<p>“That is immaterial. The imposture will be destroyed. He who desires -to attain complete freedom must not be afraid of killing himself.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span> He -who dares to kill himself, has discovered where the error lies. There -is no greater liberty than this: this is the end of all things, and -you cannot go further. He who dares to kill himself is God. It is at -present in every one’s power to bring this about: that God shall be no -more, and that nothing shall exist any more. But nobody has yet done -this.”</p> - -<p>“There have been millions of suicides.”</p> - -<p>“But they have never been inspired with this idea. They have always -killed themselves out of fear, and never in order to kill fear. He who -will kill himself simply in order to kill fear, he will be God.”</p> - -<p>In this last sentence we have the whole idea and philosophy of Kirilov. -He had made up his mind to kill himself, in order to prove that he was -not afraid of death, and he was possessed by that idea, and by that -idea alone. In another place he says that man is unhappy because he -does not know that he is happy: simply for this reason: that is all. -“He who knows that he is happy will become happy at once, immediately.” -And further on he says: “Men are not good, simply because they do not -know they are good. When they realise this, they will no longer commit -crimes. They must learn that they are good, and instantly they will -become good, one and all of them. He who will teach men that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span> they are -good, will end the world.” The man to whom he is talking objects that -He who taught men that they were good was crucified.</p> - -<p>“The man will come,” Kirilov replies, “and his name will be the -Man-God.”</p> - -<p>“The God-Man?” says his interlocutor.</p> - -<p>“No, the Man-God,—there is a difference.”</p> - -<p>Here we have his idea of the Superman.<a id="FNanchor_20" href="#Footnote_20" class="fnanchor">[20]</a></p> - -<p>As soon as Peter discovers Kirilov’s obsession, he extracts from him a -promise that, as he has determined to commit suicide, and that as it is -quite indifferent to him how and when he does it, he shall do it when -it is useful to him, Peter. Kirilov consents to this, although he feels -himself in no way bound to Peter, and although he sees through him -entirely and completely, and would hate him were his contempt not too -great for hatred. But Peter’s most ambitious plans do not consist merely -in binding five men to him by an indissoluble bond of blood: that is -only the means to an end. The end, as I have already said, is vaguely -to get power; and besides the five men whom he intends to make his -slaves for life, Peter has another and far more important trump card. -This trump card consists of a man, Nicholas Stavrogin, who is the hero -of the book. He is the only son of a widow with a landed estate, and -after<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span> being brought up by Peter’s father, an old, harmless and kindly -Radical, he is sent to school at the age of sixteen, and later on goes -into the army, receiving a commission in one of the most brilliant of -the Guards regiments in St. Petersburg. No sooner does he get to St. -Petersburg, than he distinguishes himself by savage eccentricities. He -is what the Russians call a <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">skandalist</i>. He is a good-looking -young man of Herculean strength, and quiet, pleasant manners, who every -now and then gives way to the wildest caprices, the most extravagant -and astounding whims, when he seems to lose all control over himself. -For a time he leads the kind of life led by Prince Harry with Falstaff, -and his extravagances are the subject of much talk. He drives over -people in his carriage, and publicly insults a lady of high position. -Finally, he takes part in two duels. In both cases he is the aggressor. -One of his adversaries is killed, and the other severely wounded. On -account of this he is court-martialled, degraded to the ranks, and -has to serve as a common soldier in an infantry regiment. But in 1863 -he has an opportunity of distinguishing himself, and after a time his -military rank is given back to him. It is then that he returns to the -provincial town, where the whole of the events told in the book take -place, and plays a part in Peter’s organisation. Peter regards him, -as I have said, as his trump<span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span> card, because of the strength of his -character. He is one of those people who represent the extreme Lucifer -quality of the Russian nature. He is proud and inflexible, without -any trace of weakness. There is nothing in the world he is afraid of, -and there is nothing he will not do if he wishes to do it. He will -commit the wildest follies, the most outrageous extravagances, but as -it were <em>deliberately</em>, and not as if he were carried away by the -impetuosity of his temperament. On the contrary, he seems throughout to -be as cold as ice, and eternally unruffled and cool; and he is capable -when he chooses of showing a self-control as astonishing and remarkable -as his outbursts of violence. Peter knows very well that he cannot hope -to influence such a man. Stavrogin sees through Peter and despises -him. At the same time, Peter hopes to entangle him in his scheme, as -he entangles the others, and thinks that, this once done, a man with -Stavrogin’s character cannot help being his principal asset. It is on -this very character, however, that the whole of Peter’s schemes break -down. Stavrogin has married a lame, half-witted girl; the marriage is -kept secret, and he loves and is loved by an extremely beautiful girl -called Lisa. Peter conceives the idea of getting a tramp, an ex-convict -who is capable of everything, to murder Stavrogin’s wife and the -drunken brother with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span> whom she lives, and to set fire to a part of the -town and the house where the two are living. He hopes that Stavrogin -will marry Lisa, and then not be able to withdraw from his organisation -for fear of being held responsible for the murder of his wife.</p> - -<p>Stavrogin sees through the whole scheme. He announces his marriage -publicly; but this act, instead of alienating Lisa from him, increases -her passion. Nevertheless Stavrogin’s wife and her brother are -murdered, and a large quarter of the town is burned. When Lisa asks -Stavrogin if he is in any way connected with this murder, he replies -that he was opposed to it, but that he had guessed that they would -be murdered, and that he had taken no steps to prevent it. Lisa -herself is killed, almost by accident, on the scene of the murder of -Stavrogin’s wife. She is killed by an excited man in the crowd, who -holds her responsible for the deed, and thinks that she has come to -gloat over her victims. After this Stavrogin washes his hands of the -whole business, and leaves the town. It is then that Peter carries -out the rest of his plans. Chatov is murdered, and Peter calls upon -Kirilov to fulfil his promise and commit suicide. He wishes him, before -committing the act, to write a paper in which he shall state that he -has disseminated revolutionary pamphlets and proclamations, and that he -has employed the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span> ex-convict who committed the murders. He is also to -add that he has killed Chatov on account of his betrayal. But Kirilov -has not known until this moment that Chatov is dead, and he refuses to -say a word about him. Then begins a duel between these two men in the -night, which is the most exciting chapter in the book, and perhaps one -of the most exciting and terrifying things ever written. Peter is in -terror lest Kirilov should fail him, and Kirilov is determined not to -be a party to Peter’s baseness. Peter plays upon his vanity, and by -subtle taunts excites to a frenzy the man’s monomania, till at last -he consents to sign the paper. Then snatching a revolver he goes into -the next room. Peter waits, not knowing what is going to happen. Ten -minutes pass, and Peter, consumed by anxiety, takes a candle and opens -the door of the room in which Kirilov has shut himself. He opens the -door, and somebody flies at him like a wild beast. He shuts the door -with all his might, and remains listening. He hears nothing, and as he -is now convinced that Kirilov will not commit suicide, he makes up his -mind to kill Kirilov himself, now that he has got the paper. He knows -that in a quarter of an hour his candle will be entirely consumed; he -sees there is nothing else to be done but to kill Kirilov, but at the -same time he does not wish to do it.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span></p> - -<p>At last he takes the revolver in his right hand and the candle in his -left hand, and with his left hand manages to open the door. The room -is apparently empty. At first he thinks that Kirilov has fled; then he -becomes aware that against the wall, between a window and a cupboard, -Kirilov is standing, stiff and motionless as a ghost. He rushes toward -him. Kirilov remains motionless, but his eye is fixed on Peter, and a -sardonic smile is on his lips, as though he had guessed what was in -Peter’s mind. Peter, losing all self-control, flies at Kirilov, who -knocks the candle out of Peter’s hand, and bites his little finger -nearly in two. Peter beats him on the head with the butt of his -revolver, and escapes from the room. As he escapes, he hears terrifying -screams of “At once! at once! at once!” Peter is running for his life, -and is already in the vestibule of the house, when he hears a revolver -shot. Then he goes back and finds that Kirilov has killed himself.</p> - -<p>This is practically the end of the book. Peter gets away to St. -Petersburg, and all his machinations are discovered. The corpse of -Chatov is found; the declaration in Kirilov’s handwriting at first -misleads the police, but the whole truth soon comes out, since nearly -all the conspirators confess, each being overcome with remorse. Peter -escapes and goes abroad. Nicholas Stavrogin<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span> returns to his home from -St. Petersburg; he is not inculpated in any way in the plots, since the -conspirators bear witness that he had nothing to do with them. But he -hangs himself nevertheless.</p> - -<p>As I have said before, the chief characters of this book, Stavrogin, -Peter, Chatov, and Kirilov, who seemed such gross exaggerations -when the book was published, would surprise nobody who has had any -experience of contemporary Russia. Indeed, Peter is less an imitation -of Nechaev than a prototype of Azev. As to Kirilov, there are dozens of -such men, possessed by one idea and one idea only, in Russia. Stavrogin -also is a type which occurs throughout Russian history. Stavrogin has -something of Peter the Great in him, Peter the Great run to seed, and -of such there are also many in Russia to-day.</p> - - -<h3>VIII<br /><i><span class="smcap">The Brothers Karamazov</span></i></h3> - - -<p>The subject of <i>The Brothers Karamazov</i><a id="FNanchor_21" href="#Footnote_21" class="fnanchor">[21]</a> had occupied -Dostoievsky’s mind ever since 1870, but he did not begin to write it -until 1879, and when he died in 1881, only half the book was finished; -in fact, he never even reached what he<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span> intended to be the real subject -of the book. The subject was to be the life of a great sinner, Alosha -Karamazov. But when Dostoievsky died, he had only written the prelude, -in itself an extremely long book; and in this prelude he told the story -of the bringing up of his hero, his surroundings and his early life, -and in so doing he tells us all that is important about his hero’s -brothers and father. The story of Alosha’s two brothers, and of their -relations to their father, is in itself so rich in incident and ideas -that it occupies the whole book, and Dostoievsky died before he had -reached the development of Alosha himself.</p> - -<p>The father is a cynical sensualist, utterly wanting in balance, vain, -loquacious, and foolish. His eldest son, Mitya, inherits his father’s -sensuality, but at the same time he has the energy and strength of -his mother, his father’s first wife; Mitya is full of energy and -strength. His nature does not know discipline; and since his passions -have neither curb nor limit, they drive him to catastrophe. His nature -is a mixture of fire and dross, and the dross has to be purged by -intense suffering. Like Raskolnikov, Mitya has to expiate a crime. -Circumstantial evidence seems to indicate that he has killed his -father. Everything points to it, so much so that when one reads the -book without knowing the story<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span> beforehand, one’s mind shifts from -doubt to certainty, and from certainty to doubt, just as though one -were following some absorbing criminal story in real life. After a -long series of legal proceedings, cross-examinations, and a trial in -which the lawyers perform miracles of forensic art, Mitya is finally -condemned. I will not spoil the reader’s pleasure by saying whether -Mitya is guilty or not, because there is something more than idle -curiosity excited by this problem as one reads the book. The question -seems to test to the utmost one’s power of judging character, so -abundant and so intensely vivid are the psychological data which the -author gives us. Moreover, the question as to whether Mitya did or did -not kill his father is in reality only a side-issue in the book; the -main subjects of which are, firstly, the character of the hero, which -is made to rise before us in its entirety, although we do not get as -far as the vicissitudes through which it is to pass. Secondly, the -root-idea of the book is an attack upon materialism, and the character -of Alosha forms a part of this attack. Materialism is represented in -the second of the brothers, Ivan Karamazov, and a great part of the -book is devoted to the tragedy and the crisis of Ivan’s life.</p> - -<p>Ivan’s mind is, as he says himself, Euclidean and quite material. It is -impossible, he says,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span> to love men when they are near to you. You can -only love them at a distance. Men are hateful, and there is sufficient -proof of this in the sufferings which children alone have to endure -upon earth. At the same time, his logical mind finds nothing to wonder -at in the universal sufferings of mankind. Men, he says, are themselves -guilty: they were given Paradise, they wished for freedom, and they -stole fire from heaven, knowing that they would thereby become unhappy; -therefore they are not to be pitied. He only knows that suffering -exists, that no one is guilty, that one thing follows from another -perfectly simply, that everything proceeds from something else, and -that everything works out as in an equation. But this is not enough -for him: it is not enough for him to recognise that one thing proceeds -simply and directly from another. He wants something else; he must -needs have compensation and retribution, otherwise he would destroy -himself; and he does not want to obtain this compensation somewhere -and some time, in infinity, but here and now, on earth, so that he -should see it himself. He has not suffered, merely in order that his -very self should supply, by its evil deeds and its passions, the manure -out of which some far-off future harmony may arise. He wishes to see -with his own eyes how the lion shall lie down with the lamb. The great -stumbling-block to him is<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span> the question of children: the sufferings of -children. If all men have to suffer, in order that by their suffering -they may build an eternal harmony, what have children got to do with -this? It is inexplicable that they should suffer, and that it should be -necessary for them to attain to an eternal harmony by their sufferings. -Why should <em>they</em> fall into the material earth, and make manure -for some future harmony? He understands that there can be solidarity in -sin between men; he understands the idea of solidarity and retaliation, -but he cannot understand the idea of solidarity with children in sin. -The mocker will say, he adds, that the child will grow up and have -time to sin; but he is not yet grown up. He understands, he says, what -the universal vibration of joy must be, when everything in heaven and -on earth joins in one shout of praise, and every living thing cries -aloud, “Thou art just, O Lord, for Thou hast revealed Thy ways.” And -when the mother shall embrace the man who tormented and tore her child -to bits,—when mother, child, and tormentor shall all join in the cry, -“Lord, Thou art just!” then naturally the full revelation will be -accomplished and everything will be made plain. Perhaps, he says, he -would join in the Hosanna himself, were that moment to come, but he -does not wish to do so; while there is yet time, he wishes to guard -himself against so doing, and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span> therefore he entirely renounces any idea -of the higher harmony. He does not consider it worth the smallest tear -of one suffering child; it is not worth it, because he considers that -such tears are irreparable, and that no compensation can be made for -them; and if they are not compensated for, how can there be an eternal -harmony? But for a child’s tears, he says, there is no compensation, -for retribution—that is to say, the punishment of those who caused -the suffering—is not compensation. Finally, he does not think that -the mother has the right to forgive the man who caused her children to -suffer; she may forgive him for her own sufferings, but she has not -the right to forgive him the sufferings of her children. And without -such forgiveness there can be no harmony. It is for love of mankind -that he does not desire this harmony: he prefers to remain with his -irreparable wrong, for which no compensation can be made. He prefers to -remain with his unavenged and unavengeable injuries and his tireless -indignation. Even if he is not right, they have put too high a price, -he says, on this eternal harmony. “We cannot afford to pay so much for -it; we cannot afford to pay so much for the ticket of admission into -it. Therefore I give it back. And if I am an honest man, I am obliged -to give it back as soon as possible. This I do. It is not because I do -not acknowledge<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span> God, only I must respectfully return Him the ticket.”</p> - -<p>The result of Ivan’s philosophy is logical egotism and materialism. But -his whole theory is upset, owing to its being pushed to its logical -conclusion by a half-brother of the Karamazovs, a lackey, Smerdyakov, -who puts into practice the theories of Ivan, and commits first a -crime and then suicide. This and a severe illness combine to shatter -Ivan’s theories. His physical being may recover, but one sees that his -epicurean theories of life cannot subsist.</p> - -<p>In sharp contrast to the two elder brothers is the third brother, -Alosha, the hero of the book. He is one of the finest and most -sympathetic characters that Dostoievsky created. He has the simplicity -of “The Idiot,” without his naïveté, and without the abnormality -arising from epilepsy. He is a normal man, perfectly sane and sensible. -He is the very incarnation of “sweet reasonableness.” He is <i>Ivan -Durak</i>, Ivan the Fool, but without being a fool. Alosha, Dostoievsky -says, was in no way a fanatic; he was not even what most people call a -mystic, but simply a lover of human beings; he loved humanity; all his -life he believed in men, and yet nobody would have taken him for a fool -or for a simple creature. There was something in him which convinced -you that he did not wish to be a judge of men, that<span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span> he did not wish -to claim or exercise the right of judging others. One remarkable -fact about his character, which is equally true of Dostoievsky’s own -character, was that Alosha with this wide tolerance never put on -blinkers, or shut his eyes to the wickedness of man, or to the ugliness -of life. No one could astonish or frighten him, even when he was quite -a child. Every one loved him wherever he went. Nor did he ever win -the love of people by calculation, or cunning, or by the craft of -pleasing. But he possessed in himself the gift of making people love -him. It was innate in him; it acted immediately and directly, and -with perfect naturalness. The basis of his character was that he was -a <i>Realist</i>. When he was in the monastery where he spent a part -of his youth, he believed in miracles; but Dostoievsky says, “Miracles -never trouble a Realist; it is not miracles which incline a Realist -to believe. A true Realist, if he is not a believer, will always find -in himself sufficient strength and sufficient capacity to disbelieve -even in a miracle. And if a miracle appears before him as an undeniable -fact, he will sooner disbelieve in his senses than admit the fact of -the miracle. If, on the other hand, he admits it, he will admit it -as a natural fact, which up to the present he was unaware of. The -Realist does not believe in God because he believes in miracles, but he -believes in miracles<span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span> because he believes in God. If a Realist believes -in God, his realism will necessarily lead him to admit the existence of -miracles also.”</p> - -<p>Alosha’s religion, therefore, was based on common sense, and admitted -of no compromise. As soon as, after having thought about the matter, -he becomes convinced that God and the immortality of the soul exist, -he immediately says to himself quite naturally: “I wish to live for -the future life, and to admit of no half-way house.” And just in the -same way, had he been convinced that God and the immortality of the -soul do not exist, he would have become an atheist and a socialist. -For Dostoievsky says that Socialism is not only a social problem, but -an <em>atheistic</em> problem. It is the problem of the incarnation of -atheism, the problem of a Tower of Babel to be made without God, not in -order to reach Heaven from earth, but to bring Heaven down to earth.</p> - -<p>Alosha wishes to spend his whole life in the monastery, and to give -himself up entirely to religion, but he is not allowed to do so. In the -monastery, Alosha finds a spiritual father, Zosima. This character, -which is drawn with power and vividness, strikes us as being a blend -of saintliness, solid sense, and warm humanity. He is an old man, and -he dies in the convent; but before he dies, he sees Alosha, and tells -him that he must leave the convent for ever; he must go out into<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span> -the world, and live in the world, and suffer. “You will have many -adversaries,” he says to him, “but even your enemies will love you. -Life will bring you many misfortunes, but you will be happy on account -of them, and you will bless life and cause others to bless it. That is -the most important thing of all.” Alosha is to go into the world and -submit to many trials, for he is a Karamazov too, and the microbe of -lust which rages in the blood of that family is in him also. He is to -put into practice Father Zosima’s precepts: “Be no man’s judge; humble -love is a terrible power which effects more than violence. Only active -love can bring out faith. Love men and do not be afraid of their sins: -love man in his sin; love all the creatures of God, and pray God to -make you cheerful. Be cheerful as children and as the birds.” These are -the precepts which Alosha is to carry out in the face of many trials. -How he does so we never see, for the book ends before his trials -begin, and all we see is the strength of his influence, the effect of -the sweetness of his character in relation to the trials of his two -brothers, Mitya and Ivan.</p> - -<p>That Dostoievsky should have died before finishing this monumental -work which would have been his masterpiece, is a great calamity. -Nevertheless the book is not incomplete in itself: it is a large piece -of life, and it contains the whole of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span> Dostoievsky’s philosophy and -ideas. Moreover, considered merely as a novel, as a book to be read -from the point of view of being entertained, and excited about what -is going to happen next, it is of enthralling interest. This book, -therefore, can be recommended to a hermit who wishes to ponder over -something deep, in a cell or on a desert island, to a philosopher who -wishes to sharpen his thoughts against a hard whetstone, to a man who -is unhappy and wishes to find some healing balm, or to a man who is -going on a railway journey and wishes for an exciting story to while -away the time.</p> - - -<h3>IX</h3> - -<p>This study of Dostoievsky, or rather this suggestion for a study of his -work, cannot help being sketchy and incomplete. I have not only not -dealt with his shorter stories, such as <i>White Nights</i>, <i>The -Friend of the Family</i>, <i>The Gambler</i> and <i>The Double</i>, but -I have not even mentioned two longer novels, <i>The Hobbledehoy</i> -and <i>Despised and Rejected</i>. The last named, though it suffers -from being somewhat melodramatic in parts, contains as strong a note -of pathos as is to be found in any of Dostoievsky’s books; and an -incident of this book has been singled out by Robert Louis Stevenson -as being—together with<span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span> the moment when Mark Antony takes off his -helmet, and the scene when Kent has pity on the dying Lear—one of the -most greatly moving episodes in the whole of literature. The reason why -I have not dwelt on these minor works is that to the English reader, -unacquainted with Dostoievsky, an exact and minute analysis of his -works can only be tedious. I have only dealt with the very broadest -outline of the case, so as to enable the reader to make up his mind -whether he wishes to become acquainted with Dostoievsky’s work at all. -My object has been merely to open the door, and not to act as a guide -and to show him over every part of the house. If I have inspired him -with a wish to enter the house, I have succeeded in my task. Should -he wish for better-informed guides and fuller guide-books, he will -find them in plenty; but guides and guide-books are utterly useless to -people who do not wish to visit the country of which they treat. And my -sole object has been to give in the broadest manner possible a rough -sketch of the nature of the country, so as to enable the traveller -to make up his mind whether he thinks it worth while or not to buy a -ticket and to set forth on a voyage of exploration. Should such an one -decide that the exploration is to him attractive and worth his while, I -should advise him to begin with <i>The Letters from a Dead House</i>, -and to go on with <i>The Idiot</i>, <i>Crime and Punishment</i>,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span> and -<i>The Brothers Karamazov</i>; and to read <i>The Possessed</i> last -of all. If he understands and appreciates <i>The Letters from a Dead -House</i>, he will be able to understand and appreciate the character -of Dostoievsky and the main ideas which lie at the root of all his -books. If he is able to understand and appreciate <i>The Idiot</i>, he -will be able to understand and appreciate the whole of Dostoievsky’s -writings. But should he begin with <i>Crime and Punishment</i>, or -<i>The Possessed</i>, it is possible that he might be put off, and -relinquish the attempt; just as it is possible that a man who took -up Shakespeare’s plays for the first time and began with <i>King -Lear</i>, might make up his mind not to persevere, but to choose some -more cheerful author. And by so doing he would probably lose a great -deal, since a man who is repelled by <i>King Lear</i> might very well -be able to appreciate not only <i>The Merchant of Venice</i>, but -<i>Henry IV</i> and the <i>Winter’s Tale</i>. If one were asked to -sum up briefly what was Dostoievsky’s message to his generation and -to the world in general, one could do so in two words: love and pity. -The love which is in Dostoievsky’s work is so great, so bountiful, so -overflowing, that it is impossible to find a parallel to it, either -in ancient or in modern literature. It is human, but more than human, -that is to say, divine. Supposing the Gospel of St. John were to be -annihilated and lost to us for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span> ever, although nothing, of course, -could replace it, Dostoievsky’s work would go nearer to recalling the -spirit of it than any other books of any other European writer.<a id="FNanchor_22" href="#Footnote_22" class="fnanchor">[22]</a> -It is the love which faces everything and which shrinks from nothing. -It is the love which that saint felt who sought out the starving and -freezing beggar, and warmed and embraced him, although he was covered -with sores, and who was rewarded by the beggar turning into His Lord -and lifting him up into the infinite spaces of Heaven.</p> - -<p>Dostoievsky tells us that the most complete of his characters, Alosha, -is a Realist, and that was what Dostoievsky was himself. He was a -Realist in the true sense of the word, and he was exactly the contrary -of those people who when they wrote particularly filthy novels in which -they singled out and dwelt at length on certain revolting details of -life, called themselves Realists. He saw things as they really are; -he never shut his eyes or averted his gaze from anything which was -either cruel, hateful, ugly, bitter, diseased or obscene; but the more -he looked at the ugly things, the more firmly he became convinced of -the goodness that is in and behind everything: To put it<span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span> briefly, -the more clearly he realised mortal misery and sin, the more firmly -he believed in God. Therefore, as I have more than once said in this -study, although he sounds the lowest depths of human gloom, mortal -despair, and suffering, his books are a cry of triumph, a clarion peal, -a hosanna to the idea of goodness and to the glory of God. There is -a great gulf between Dostoievsky and such novelists as make of their -art a clinical laboratory, in which the vices and the sores, and only -the vices and the sores, are dissected and observed, not under a -microscope, but under a magnifying-glass, so that a totally distorted -and exaggerated impression of life is the result. And this is all the -more remarkable, because a large part of his most important characters -are abnormal: monomaniacs, murderers, or epileptics. But it is in -dealing with such characters that the secret of Dostoievsky’s greatness -is revealed. For in contradistinction to many writers who show us what -is insane in the sanest men, who search for and find a spot of disease -in the healthiest body, a blemish in the fairest flower, a flaw in the -brightest ruby, Dostoievsky seeks and finds the sanity of the insane, a -healthy spot in the sorest soul, a gleam of gold in the darkest mine, a -pearl in the filthiest refuse heap, a spring in the most arid desert. -In depicting humanity at its lowest depth of misery and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span> the human soul -at its highest pitch of anguish, he is making a great act of faith, and -an act of charity, and conferring a huge benefit on mankind. For in -depicting the extremest pain of abnormal sufferers, he persuades us of -the good that exists even in such men, and of the goodness that is in -suffering itself; and by taking us in the darkest of dungeons, he gives -us a glimpse such as no one else has given us of infinite light and -love.</p> - -<p>On the other hand, Dostoievsky is equally far removed from such writers -(of which we have plenty in England) who throw a cloak over all evil -things, and put on blinkers, and who, because the existence of evil -is distasteful to them, refuse to admit and face it. Such an attitude -is the direct outcome of either conscious or unconscious hypocrisy. -Dostoievsky has not a grain of hypocrisy in his nature, and therefore -such an attitude is impossible to him.</p> - -<p>Dostoievsky is a Realist, and he sees things as they are all through -life, from the most important matters down to the most trivial. He is -free from cant, either moral or political, and absolutely free from all -prejudice of caste or class. It is impossible for him to think that -because a man is a revolutionary he must therefore be a braver man than -his fellows, or because a man is a Conservative he must therefore be a -more cruel man than his fellows, just<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span> as it is impossible for him to -think the contrary, and to believe that because a man is a Conservative -he cannot help being honest, or because a man is a Radical he must -inevitably be a scoundrel. He judges men and things as they are, quite -apart from the labels which they choose to give to their political -opinions. That is why nobody who is by nature a doctrinaire<a id="FNanchor_23" href="#Footnote_23" class="fnanchor">[23]</a> can -appreciate or enjoy the works of Dostoievsky, since any one who bases -his conduct upon theory cannot help at all costs being rudely shocked -at every moment by Dostoievsky’s creed, which is based on reality and -on reality alone. Dostoievsky sees and embraces everything as it really -is. The existence of evil, of ugliness and of suffering, inspires him -with only one thing, and this is pity; and his pity is like that which -King Lear felt on the Heath when he said:</p> - -<p class="poetry"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">From seasons such as these? O, I have ta’en</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">That thou may’st shake the superflux to them,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And show the heavens more just.”</span><br /> -</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span></p> - -<p>Dostoievsky has a right to say such things, because throughout his life -he not only exposed himself, but was exposed, to feel what wretches -feel; because he might have said as King Lear said to Cordelia:</p> - -<p class="poetry"> -<span style="margin-left: 13.5em;">“I am bound</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Upon a wheel of fire that mine own tears</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Do scald like molten lead.”</span><br /> -</p> - -<p>He knew what wretches feel, by experience and not by theory, and all -his life he was bound upon a “wheel of fire.”</p> - -<p>With regard to Dostoievsky’s political opinions, he synthesised and -expressed them all in the speech which he made in June 1880, at Moscow, -in memory of Pushkin. “There was never,” he said, “a poet who possessed -such universal receptivity as Pushkin. It was not only that he was -receptive, but this receptivity was so extraordinarily deep, that -he was able to embrace and absorb in his soul the spirit of foreign -nations. No other poet has ever possessed such a gift; only Pushkin; -and Pushkin is in this sense a unique and a prophetic apparition, -since it is owing to this gift, and by means of it, that the strength -of Pushkin—that in him which is national and Russian—found -expression.... For what is the strength of the Russian national spirit -other than an aspiration towards a universal spirit, which shall -embrace the whole world<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span> and the whole of mankind? And because Pushkin -expressed the national strength, he anticipated and foretold its -future meaning. Because of this he was a prophet. For what did Peter -the Great’s reforms mean to us? I am not only speaking of what they -were to bring about in the future, but of what they were when they -were carried out. These reforms were not merely a matter of adopting -European dress, habits, instruction and science.... But the men who -adopted them aspired towards the union and the fraternity of the -world. We in no hostile fashion, as would seem to have been the case, -but in all friendliness and love, received into our spirit the genius -of foreign nations, of all foreign nations, without any distinction -of race, and we were able by instinct and at the first glance to -distinguish, to eliminate contradictions, to reconcile differences; -and by this we expressed our readiness and our inclination, we who -had only just been united together and had found expression, to bring -about a universal union of all the great Aryan race. The significance -of the Russian race is without doubt European and universal. To be a -real Russian and to be wholly Russian means only this: to be a brother -of all men, to be universally human. All this is called Slavophilism; -and what we call ‘Westernism’ is only a great, although a<span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span> historical -and inevitable misunderstanding. To the true Russian, Europe and the -affairs of the great Aryan race, are as dear as the affairs of Russia -herself and of his native country, because our affairs are the affairs -of the whole world, and they are not to be obtained by the sword, but -by the strength of fraternity and by our brotherly effort towards the -universal union of mankind.... And in the long-run I am convinced that -we, that is to say, not we, but the future generations of the Russian -people, shall every one of us, from the first to the last, understand -that to be a real Russian must signify simply this: to strive towards -bringing about a solution and an end to European conflicts; to show to -Europe a way of escape from its anguish in the Russian soul, which is -universal and all-embracing; to instil into her a brotherly love for -all men’s brothers, and in the end perhaps to utter the great and final -word of universal harmony, the fraternal and lasting concord of all -peoples according to the gospel of Christ.”</p> - -<p>So much for the characteristics of Dostoievsky’s moral and political -ideals. There remains a third aspect of the man to be dealt with: his -significance as a writer, as an artist, and as a maker of books; his -place in Russian literature, and in the literature of the world. This -is, I think, not very difficult to define. Dostoievsky, in spite of -the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span> universality of his nature, in spite of his large sympathy and -his gift of understanding and assimilation, was debarred, owing to -the violence and the want of balance of his temperament, which was -largely the result of disease, from seeing life steadily and seeing -it whole. The greatest fault of his genius, his character, and his -work, is a want of proportion. His work is often shapeless, and the -incidents in his books are sometimes fantastic and extravagant to the -verge of insanity. Nevertheless his vision, and his power of expressing -that vision, make up for what they lose in serenity and breadth, by -their intensity, their depth and their penetration. He could not look -upon the whole world with the calm of Sophocles and of Shakespeare; -he could not paint a large and luminous panorama of life unmarred -by any trace of exaggeration, as Tolstoy did. On the other hand, he -realised and perceived certain heights and depths of the human soul -which were beyond the range of Tolstoy, and almost beyond that of -Shakespeare. His position with regard to Tolstoy, Fielding, and other -great novelists is like that of Marlowe with regard to Shakespeare. -Marlowe’s plays compared with those of Shakespeare are like a series -of tumultuous fugues, on the same theme, played on an organ which -possesses but a few tremendous stops, compared with the interpretation -of music, infinitely various<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span> in mood, by stringed instruments played -in perfect concord, and rendering the finest and most subtle gradations -and shades of musical phrase and intention. But every now and then the -organ-fugue, with its thunderous bass notes and soaring treble, attains -to a pitch of intensity which no delicacy of blended strings can -rival: So, every now and then, Marlowe, in the scenes, for instance, -when Helena appears to Faustus, when Zenocrate speaks her passion, -when Faustus counts the minutes to midnight, awaiting in an agony of -terror the coming of Mephistopheles, or when Edward II is face to face -with his executioners, reaches a pitch of soaring rapture, of tragic -intensity which is not to be found even in Shakespeare. So it is with -Dostoievsky. His genius soars higher and dives deeper than that of -any other novelist, Russian or European. And what it thus gains in -intensity it loses in serenity, balance and steadiness. Therefore, -though Dostoievsky as a man possesses qualities of universality, he -is not a universal artist such as Shakespeare, or even as Tolstoy, -although he has one eminently Shakespearian gift, and that is the -faculty for discerning the “soul of goodness in things evil.” Yet, as -a writer, he reached and expressed the ultimate extreme of the soul’s -rapture, anguish and despair, and spoke the most precious words of pity -which have been heard in<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span> the world since the Gospels were written. -In this man were mingled the love of St. John, and the passion and -the fury of a fiend; but the goodness in him was triumphant over the -evil. He was a martyr; but bound though he was on a fiery wheel, he -maintained that life was good, and he never ceased to cry “Hosanna to -the Lord: for He is just!” For this reason Dostoievsky is something -more than a Russian writer: he is a brother to all mankind, especially -to those who are desolate, afflicted and oppressed. He had “great -allies”:</p> - -<p class="poetry"> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">“His friends were exaltations, agonies,</span><br /> -<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And love, and man’s unconquerable mind.”</span><br /> -</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_17" href="#FNanchor_17" class="label">[17]</a> These italics are mine.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_18" href="#FNanchor_18" class="label">[18]</a> No finer estimate of Dostoievsky’s genius exists than M. -de Vogüé’s introduction to <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Maison des Morts</i>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_19" href="#FNanchor_19" class="label">[19]</a> This is, of course, not universal. See <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Gosse’s -<i>Questions at Issue</i>.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_20" href="#FNanchor_20" class="label">[20]</a> It is characteristic that Dostoievsky puts the idea of -the “Superman” into the mouth of a monomaniac.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_21" href="#FNanchor_21" class="label">[21]</a> The French translation of this book is an abridgment. It -is quite incomplete.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_22" href="#FNanchor_22" class="label">[22]</a> This sentence has been misunderstood by some of my -readers and critics. What I mean is that the Christian charity and love -preached in the Gospel of St. John are reflected more sharply and fully -in Dostoievsky’s books than in those of any other writer I know of.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_23" href="#FNanchor_23" class="label">[23]</a> By a doctrinaire I mean not a man who has strong -principles and convictions; but a man who deliberately shuts his eyes -to those facts which contradict his theory, and will pursue it to the -end even when by so doing the practice resulting is the contrary of his -aim.</p> - -</div> -</div> -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter"> -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span></p> - -<h2 class="nobreak" id="CHAPTER_VII">CHAPTER VII<br /><span class="small">THE PLAYS OF ANTON TCHEKOV</span></h2> -</div> - - - -<p>Anton Tchekov is chiefly known in Russia as a writer of short -stories.<a id="FNanchor_24" href="#Footnote_24" class="fnanchor">[24]</a> He is a kind of Russian Guy de Maupassant, without the -bitter strength of the French writer, and without the quality which the -French call “cynisme,” which does not mean cynicism, but ribaldry.</p> - -<p>Tchekov’s stories deal for the greater part with the middle classes, -the minor landed gentry, the minor officials, and the professional -classes. Tolstoy is reported to have said that Tchekov was a -photographer, a very talented photographer, it is true, but still only -a photographer. But Tchekov has one quality which is difficult to find -among photographers, and that is humour. His stories are frequently -deliciously droll. They are also often full of pathos, and they -invariably possess the peculiarly Russian quality of simplicity and -unaffectedness. He never underlines his effects, he never nudges the -reader’s elbow. Yet<span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span> there is a certain amount of truth in Tolstoy’s -criticism. Tchekov does not paint with the great sweeping brush -of a Velasquez, his stories have not the great broad colouring of -Maupassant, they are like mezzotints; and in some ways they resemble -the new triumphs of the latest developments of artistic photography in -subtle effects of light and shade, in delicate tones and half-tones, in -elusive play of atmosphere.</p> - -<p>Apart from its artistic merits or defects, Tchekov’s work is -historically important and interesting. Tchekov represents the extreme -period of stagnation in Russian life and literature. This epoch -succeeded to a period of comparative activity following after the -Russo-Turkish war. For in Russian history one will find that every war -has been followed by a movement, a renascence in ideas, in political -aspirations, and in literature. Tchekov’s work represents the reaction -of flatness subsequent to a transitory ebullition of activity; it -deals with the very class of men which naturally hankers for political -activity, but which in Tchekov’s time was as naturally debarred from it.</p> - -<p>The result was that the aspirations of these people beat their grey -wings ineffectually in a vacuum. The middle class being highly -educated, and, if anything, over-educated, aspiring towards political -freedom, and finding its aspirations to be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span> futile, did one of two -things. It either moped, or it made the best of it. The moping -sometimes expressed itself in political assassination; making the best -of it meant, as a general rule, dismissing the matter from the mind, -and playing vindt. Half the middle class in Russia, a man once said to -me, has run to seed in playing vindt. But what else was there to do?</p> - -<p>Tchekov, more than any other writer, has depicted for us the attitude -of mind, the nature and the feelings of the whole of this generation, -just as Tourgeniev depicted the preceding generation; the aspirations -and the life of the men who lived in the sixties, during the tumultuous -epoch which culminated in the liberation of the serfs. And nowhere can -the quality of this frame of mind, and the perfume, as it were, of -this period be better felt and apprehended than in the plays of Anton -Tchekov; for in his plays we get not only what is most original in his -work as an artist, but the quintessence of the atmosphere, the attitude -of mind, and the shadow of what the <i lang="de" xml:lang="de">Zeitgeist</i> brought to the men -of his generation.</p> - -<p>Before analysing the dramatic work of Tchekov, it is necessary to say a -few words about the Russian stage in general. The main fact about the -Russian stage that differentiates it from ours, and from that of any -other European country, is the absence of the modern French tradition.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span> -The tradition of the “well-made” French play, invented by Scribe, does -not, and never has existed in Russia.</p> - -<p>Secondly, reformers and demolishers of this tradition do not exist -either, for they have nothing to reform or demolish. In Russia it was -never necessary for naturalistic schools to rise with a great flourish -of trumpets, and to proclaim that they were about to destroy the -conventions and artificiality of the stage, and to give to the public, -instead of childish sentimentalities and impossible Chinese puzzles -of intrigue, slices of real life. Had anybody behaved thus in Russia -he would simply have been beating his hands against a door which was -wide open. For the Russian drama, like the Russian novel, has, without -making any fuss about it, never done but one thing—to depict life as -clearly as it saw it, and as simply as it could.</p> - -<p>That is why there has never been a naturalist school in Russia. The -Russians are born realists; they do not have to label themselves -realists, because realism is the very air which they breathe, and the -very blood in their veins. What was labelled realism and naturalism in -other countries simply appeared to them to be a straining after effect. -Even Ibsen, whose great glory was that, having learnt all the tricks -of the stagecraft of Scribe and his followers, he demolished the whole -system, and made Comedies and Tragedies just<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span> as skilfully out of the -tremendous issues of real life—even Ibsen had no great influence in -Russia, because what interests Russian dramatists is not so much the -crashing catastrophes of life as life itself, ordinary everyday life, -just as we all see it. “I go to the theatre,” a Russian once said, “to -see what I see every day.” And here we have the fundamental difference -between the drama of Russia and that of any other country.</p> - -<p>Dramatists of other countries, be they English, or French, or German, -or Norwegian, whether they belong to the school of Ibsen, or to that -which found its temple in the Théâtre Antoine at Paris, had one thing -in common; they were either reacting or fighting against something—as -in the case of the Norwegian dramatists—or bent on proving a -thesis—as in the case of Alexandre Dumas <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">fils</i>, the Théâtre -Antoine school, or <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Shaw—; that is to say, they were all actuated -by some definite purpose; the stage was to them a kind of pulpit.</p> - -<p>On the English stage this was especially noticeable, and what the -English public has specially delighted in during the last fifteen -years has been a sermon on the stage, with a dash of impropriety in -it. Now the Russian stage has never gone in for sermons or theses: -like the Russian novel, it has been a looking-glass for<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span> the use of -the public, and not a pulpit for the use of the playwright. This -fact is never more strikingly illustrated than when the translation -of a foreign play is performed in Russia. For instance, when <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> -Bernard Shaw’s play, <i>Mrs. Warren’s Profession</i>, was performed in -December, 1907, at the Imperial State-paid Theatre at St. Petersburg, -the attitude of the public and of the critics was interesting in the -extreme. In the first place, that the play should be produced at the -Imperial State-paid Theatre is an interesting illustration of the -difference of the attitude of the two countries towards the stage. In -England, public performance of this play is forbidden; in America it -was hounded off the stage by an outraged and indignant populace; in St. -Petersburg it is produced at what, in Russia, is considered the temple -of respectability, the home of tradition, the citadel of conservatism. -In the audience were a quantity of young, unmarried girls. The play was -beautifully acted, and well received,<a id="FNanchor_25" href="#Footnote_25" class="fnanchor">[25]</a> but it never occurred to any -one that it was either daring or dangerous or startling; it was merely -judged as a story of English life, a picture of English manners. Some -people thought it was interesting, others that it was uninteresting, -but almost all were agreed in considering it to be too stagey for the -Russian taste; and as for considering it an epoch-making<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span> work, that is -to say, in the region of thought and ideas, the very idea was scoffed -at.</p> - -<p>These opinions were reflected in the press. In one of the newspapers, -the leading Liberal organ, edited by Professor Milioukov, the -theatrical critic said that <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Bernard Shaw was the typical -middle-class Englishman, and satirised the faults and follies of his -class, but that he himself belonged to the class that he satirised, -and shared its limitations. “The play,” they said, “is a typical -middle-class English play, and it suffers from the faults inherent to -this class of English work: false sentiment and melodrama.”</p> - -<p>Another newspaper, the <i>Russ</i>, wrote as follows: “Bernard Shaw is -thought to be an <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">enfant terrible</i> in England. In Russia we take -him as a writer, and as a writer only, who is not absolutely devoid -of advanced ideas. In our opinion, his play belongs neither to the -extreme right nor to the extreme left of dramatic literature; it is an -expression of the ideas of moderation which belong to the centre, and -the proof of this is the production of it at our State-paid Theatre, -which in our eyes is the home and shelter of what is retrograde and -respectable.”<a id="FNanchor_26" href="#Footnote_26" class="fnanchor">[26]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span></p> - -<p>Such was the opinion of the newspaper critic on <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Bernard Shaw’s -play. It represented more or less the opinion of the man in the street. -For nearly all European dramatic art, with the exception of certain -German and Norwegian work, strikes the Russian public as stagey and -artificial. If a Russian had written <i>Mrs. Warren’s Profession</i>, -he would never have introduced the scene between Crofts and Vivy which -occurs at the end of Act <span class="allsmcap">III.</span>, because such a scene, to a -Russian, savours of melodrama. On the other hand, he would have had no -hesitation in putting on the stage (at the Imperial State-paid Theatre) -the interior, with all its details, of one of the continental hotels -from which Mrs. Warren derived her income. But, as I have already -said, what interests the Russian dramatist most keenly is not the huge -catastrophes that stand out in lurid pre-eminence, but the incidents, -sometimes important, sometimes trivial, and sometimes ludicrous, which -happen to every human being every day of his life. And nowhere is this -so clearly visible as in the work of Tchekov; for although the plays of -Tchekov—which have not yet been discovered in England, and which will -soon be old-fashioned in Russia—are not a reflection of the actual -state of mind of the Russian people, yet as far as their artistic aim -is concerned, they are more intensely typical, and more successful -in the achievement<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span> of their aim than the work of any other Russian -dramatist.<a id="FNanchor_27" href="#Footnote_27" class="fnanchor">[27]</a></p> - -<p>Tchekov has written in all eleven plays, out of which six are farces -in one act, and five are serious dramas. The farces, though sometimes -very funny, are not important; it is in his serious dramatic work that -Tchekov really found himself, and gave to the world something new and -entirely original. The originality of Tchekov’s plays is not that they -are realistic. Other dramatists—many Frenchmen, for instance—have -written interesting and dramatic plays dealing with poignant -situations, happening to real people in real life. Tchekov’s discovery -is this, that real life, as we see it every day, can be made just as -interesting on the stage as the catastrophes or the difficulties which -are more or less exceptional, but which are chosen by dramatists as -their material because they are dramatic. Tchekov discovered that it is -not necessary for real life to be dramatic in order to be interesting. -Or rather that ordinary everyday life is as dramatic on the stage, if -by dramatic one means interesting, as extraordinary life. He perceived -that things which happen to us every day, which interest us, and affect -us keenly, but<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span> which we would never dream of thinking or of calling -dramatic when they occur, may be made as interesting on the stage as -the most far-fetched situations, or the most terrific crises. For -instance, it may affect us keenly to leave for ever a house where we -have lived for many years. It may touch us to the quick to see certain -friends off at a railway station. But we do not call these things -dramatic. They are not dramatic, but they are human.</p> - -<p>Tchekov has realised this, and has put them on the stage. He has -managed to send over the footlights certain feelings, moods, and -sensations, which we experience constantly, and out of which our life -is built. He has managed to make the departure of certain people from a -certain place, and the staying on of certain others in the same place, -as interesting behind the footlights as the tragic histories of Œdipus -or Othello, and a great deal more interesting than the complicated -struggles and problems in which the characters of a certain school -of modern dramatists are enmeshed. Life as a whole never presents -itself to us as a definite mathematical problem, which needs immediate -solution, but is rather composed of a thousand nothings, which together -make something vitally important. Tchekov has understood this, and -given us glimpses of these nothings, and made whole plays out of these -nothings.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span></p> - -<p>At first sight one is tempted to say that there is no action in the -plays of Tchekov. But on closer study one realises that the action -is there, but it is not the kind usually sought after and employed -by men who write for the stage. Tchekov is, of course, not the first -dramatic writer who has realised that the action which consisted -in violent things happening to violent people is not a whit more -interesting, perhaps a great deal less interesting, than the changes -and the vicissitudes which happen spiritually in the soul of man. -Molière knew this, for <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">Le Misanthrope</i> is a play in which nothing -in the ordinary sense happens. Rostand’s <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">L’Aiglon</i> is a play -where nothing in the ordinary sense happens.<a id="FNanchor_28" href="#Footnote_28" class="fnanchor">[28]</a> But in these plays -in the extraordinary sense everything happens. A violent drama occurs -in the soul of the Misanthrope, and likewise in that of the Duke of -Reichstadt. So it is in Tchekov’s plays. He shows us the changes, -the revolutions, the vicissitudes, the tragedies, the comedies, the -struggles, the conflicts, the catastrophes, that happen in the souls -of men, but he goes a step further than other dramatists in the way -in which he shows us these things. He shows us these things as we -ourselves perceive or guess them in real life, without the help of -poetic soliloquies or monologues,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span> without the help of a Greek chorus -or a worldly <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">raisonneur</i>, and without the aid of startling events -which strip people of their masks. He shows us bits of the everyday -life of human beings as we see it, and his pictures of ordinary human -beings, rooted in certain circumstances, and engaged in certain -avocations, reveal to us further glimpses of the life that is going -on inside these people. The older dramatists, even when they deal -exclusively with the inner life of man, without the aid of any outside -action, allow their creations to take off their masks and lay bare -their very inmost souls to us.</p> - -<p>Tchekov’s characters never, of their own accord, take off their masks -for the benefit of the audience, but they retain them in exactly -the same degree as people retain them in real life; that is to say, -we sometimes guess by a word, a phrase, a gesture, the humming of a -tune, or the smelling of a flower, what is going on behind the mask; -at other times we see the mask momentarily torn off by an outbreak of -inward passion, but never by any pressure of an outside and artificial -machinery, never owing to the necessity of a situation, the demands of -a plot, or the exigencies of a problem; in fact, never by any forces -which are not those of life itself. In Tchekov’s plays, as in real -life, to use Meredith’s phrase, “Passions spin the plot”; he shows us -the delicate webs that reach from<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span> soul to soul across the trivial -incidents of every day.</p> - -<p>I will now analyse in detail two of the plays of Tchekov. The first is -a drama called <i lang="ru" xml:lang="ru">Chaika</i>. “Chaika” means “Sea-gull.” It was the -first serious play of Tchekov that was performed; and it is interesting -to note that when it was first produced at the Imperial Theatre at St. -Petersburg it met with no success, the reason being, no doubt, that the -actors did not quite enter into the spirit of the play. As soon as it -was played at Moscow it was triumphantly successful.</p> - -<p>The first act takes place in the park in the estate belonging to -Peter Nikolaievitch Sorin, the brother of a celebrated actress, -Irina Nikolaievna, whose stage name is Arkadina. Preparations have -been made in the park for some private theatricals. A small stage -has been erected. The play about to be represented has been written -by Constantine, the actress’s son, who is a young man, twenty-five -years old. The chief part is to be played by a young girl, Ina, the -daughter of a neighbouring landowner. These two young people are in -love with each other. Irina is a successful actress of the more or -less conventional type. She has talent and brains. “She sobs over -a book,” one of the characters says of her, “and knows all Russian -poetry by heart; she looks after the sick like an angel, but you -must not<span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span> mention Eleanora Duse in her presence, you must praise her -only, and write about her and her wonderful acting in <i lang="fr" xml:lang="fr">La Dame aux -Camélias</i>. In the country she is bored, and we all become her -enemies, we are all guilty. She is superstitious and avaricious.” -Constantine, her son, is full of ideals with regard to the reform of -the stage; he finds the old forms conventional and tedious, he is -longing to pour new wine into the old skins, or rather to invent new -skins.</p> - -<p>There is also staying in the house a well-known writer, about forty -years old, named Trigorin. “He is talented and writes well,” one of the -other characters says of him, “but after reading Tolstoy you cannot -read him at all.” The remaining characters are a middle-aged doctor, -named Dorn; the agent of the estate, a retired officer, his wife and -daughter, and a schoolmaster. The characters all assemble to witness -Constantine’s play; they sit down in front of the small extemporised -stage, which has a curtain but no back cloth, since this is provided -by nature in the shape of a distant lake enclosed by trees. The sun -has set, and it is twilight. Constantine begs his guests to lend their -attention. The curtain is raised, revealing a view of the lake with -the moon shining above the horizon, and reflected in the water. Ina is -discovered seated on a large rock dressed all in white. She begins to -speak a kind<span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span> of prose poem, an address of the Spirit of the Universe -to the dead world on which there is supposed to be no longer any living -creature.</p> - -<p>Arkadina (the actress) presently interrupts the monologue by saying -softly to her neighbour, “This is decadent stuff.” The author, in a -tone of imploring reproach, says, “Mamma!” The monologue continues, the -Spirit of the World speaks of his obstinate struggle with the devil, -the origin of material force. There is a pause. Far off on the lake two -red dots appear. “Here,” says the Spirit of the World, “is my mighty -adversary, the devil. I see his terrible glowing eyes.” Arkadina once -more interrupts, and the following dialogue ensues:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><i>Arkadina</i>: It smells of sulphur; is that necessary?</p> - -<p><i>Constantine</i>: Yes.</p> - -<p><i>Arkadina</i> (<i>laughing</i>): Yes, that is an effect.</p> - -<p><i>Constantine</i>: Mamma!</p> - -<p><i>Ina</i> (<i>continuing to recite</i>): He is lonely without man.</p> - -<p><i>Paulin</i> (<i>the wife of the agent</i>): (<i>To the doctor</i>): -You have taken off your hat. Put it on again, you will catch cold.</p> - -<p><i>Arkadina</i>: The doctor has taken off his hat to the devil, the -father of the material universe.</p> - -<p><i>Constantine</i> (<i>losing his temper</i>): The play’s over. -Enough! Curtain!</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span></p> - -<p><i>Arkadina</i>: Why are you angry?</p> - -<p><i>Constantine</i>: Enough! Pull down the curtain! (<i>The curtain is -let down.</i>) I am sorry I forgot, it is only certain chosen people -that may write plays and act. I infringed the monopoly, I ... (<i>He -tries to say something, but waves his arm and goes out.</i>)</p> - -<p><i>Arkadina</i>: What is the matter with you?</p> - -<p><i>Sorin</i> (<i>her brother</i>): My dear, you should be more gentle -with the <i>amour propre</i> of the young.</p> - -<p><i>Arkadina</i>: What did I say to him?</p> - -<p><i>Sorin</i>: You offended him.</p> - -<p><i>Arkadina</i>: He said himself it was a joke, and I took his play as -a joke.</p> - -<p><i>Sorin</i>: All the same ...</p> - -<p><i>Arkadina</i>: Now it appears he has written a masterpiece! A -masterpiece, if you please! So he arranged this play, and made a -smell of sulphur, not as a joke, but as a manifesto! He wished to -teach us how to write and how to act. One gets tired of this in -the long-run,—these insinuations against me, these everlasting -pin-pricks, they are enough to tire any one. He is a capricious and -conceited boy!</p> - -<p><i>Sorin</i>: He wished to give you pleasure.</p> - -<p><i>Arkadina</i>: Really? Then why did he not choose some ordinary -play, and why did he force us to listen to this decadent rubbish? -If it is a joke I do not mind listening to rubbish, but he has the -pretension to invent new forms, and tries to inaugurate a new era in -art; and I do not think the form is new, it is simply bad.</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span></p> - -<p>Presently Ina appears; they compliment her on her performance. -Arkadina tells her she ought to go on to the stage, to which she -answers that that is her dream. She is introduced to Trigorin the -author: this makes her shy. She has read his works, she is overcome at -seeing the celebrity face to face. “Wasn’t it an odd play?” she asks -Trigorin. “I did not understand it,” he answers, “but I looked on with -pleasure—your acting was so sincere, and the scenery was beautiful.” -Ina says she must go home, and they all go into the house except the -doctor. Constantine appears again, and the doctor tells him that he -liked the play, and congratulates him. The young man is deeply touched. -He is in a state of great nervous excitement. As soon as he learns -that Ina has gone he says he must go after her at once. The doctor is -left alone. Masha, the daughter of the agent, enters and makes him a -confession: “I don’t love my father,” she says, “but I have confidence -in you. Help me.” “What is the matter?” he asks. “I am suffering,” she -answers, “and nobody knows my suffering. I love Constantine.” “How -nervous these people are,” says the doctor, “nerves, all nerves! and -what a quantity of love. Oh, enchanted lake! But what can I do for you, -my child, what, what?” and the curtain comes down.</p> - -<p>The second act is in the garden of the same<span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span> estate. It is a hot noon. -Arkadina has decided to travel to Moscow. The agent comes and tells -her that all the workmen are busy harvesting, and that there are no -horses to take her to the station. She tells him to hire horses in the -village, or else she will walk. “In that case,” the agent replies, “I -give notice, and you can get a new agent.” She goes out in a passion. -Presently Constantine appears bearing a dead sea-gull; he lays it at -Ina’s feet.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><i>Ina</i>: What does this mean?</p> - -<p><i>Constantine</i>: I shot this sea-gull to-day to my shame. I throw -it at your feet.</p> - -<p><i>Ina</i>: What is the matter with you?</p> - -<p><i>Constantine</i>: I shall soon shoot myself in the same way.</p> - -<p><i>Ina</i>: I do not recognise you.</p> - -<p><i>Constantine</i>: Yes, some time after I have ceased to recognise -you. You have changed towards me, your look is cold, my presence makes -you uncomfortable.</p> - -<p><i>Ina</i>: During these last days you have become irritable, and -speak in an unintelligible way, in symbols. I suppose this sea-gull is -a symbol. Forgive me, I am too simple to understand you.</p> - -<p><i>Constantine</i>: It all began on that evening when my play was -such a failure. Women cannot forgive failure. I burnt it all to the -last page. Oh, if you only knew how unhappy I am! Your coldness is -terrifying, incredible! It is just as if I awoke, and suddenly saw -that this lake<span class="pagenum" id="Page_281">[Pg 281]</span> was dry, or had disappeared under the earth. You have -just said you were too simple to understand me. Oh, what is there to -understand? My play was a failure, you despise my work, you already -consider that I am a thing of no account, like so many others! How -well I understand that, how well I understand! It is as if there were -a nail in my brain; may it be cursed, together with the <i>amour -propre</i> which is sucking my blood, sucking it like a snake! (<i>He -sees Trigorin, who enters reading a book.</i>) Here comes the real -genius. He walks towards us like a Hamlet, and with a book too. -“Words, words, words.” This sun is not yet come to you, and you are -already smiling, your looks have melted in its rays. I will not be in -your way. (<i>He goes out rapidly.</i>)</p> -</div> - -<p>There follows a conversation between Trigorin and Ina, during which she -says she would like to know what it feels like to be a famous author. -She talks of his interesting life.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><i>Trigorin</i>: What is there so very wonderful about it? Like a -monomaniac who, for instance, is always thinking day and night of the -moon, I am pursued by one thought which I cannot get rid of, I must -write, I must write, I must ... I have scarcely finished a story, when -for some reason or another I must write a second, and then a third, -and then a fourth. I write uninterruptedly, I cannot do otherwise. -What is there so wonderful and splendid in this, I ask you? Oh, it is -a cruel life! Look, I get excited with you, and all<span class="pagenum" id="Page_282">[Pg 282]</span> the time I am -remembering that an unfinished story is waiting for me. I see a cloud -which is like a pianoforte, and I at once think that I must remember -to say somewhere in the story that there is a cloud like a pianoforte.</p> - -<p><i>Ina</i>: But does not your inspiration and the process of creation -give you great and happy moments?</p> - -<p><i>Trigorin</i>: Yes, when I write it is pleasant, and it is nice to -correct proofs; but as soon as the thing is published, I cannot bear -it, and I already see that it is not at all what I meant, that it is -a mistake, that I should not have written it at all, and I am vexed -and horribly depressed. The public reads it, and says: “Yes, pretty, -full of talent, very nice, but how different from Tolstoy!” or, “Yes, -a fine thing, but how far behind <i>Fathers and Sons</i>; Tourgeniev -is better.” And so, until I die, it will always be “pretty and full of -talent,” never anything more; and when I die my friends as they pass -my grave will say: “Here lies Trigorin, he was a good writer, but he -did not write as well as Tourgeniev.”</p> -</div> - -<p>Ina tells him that whatever he may appear to himself, to others he -appears great and wonderful. For the joy of being a writer or an -artist, she says, she would bear the hate of her friends, want, -disappointment; she would live in an attic and eat dry crusts. “I would -suffer from my own imperfections, but in return I should demand fame, -real noisy fame.” Here the voice of Arkadina is heard calling Trigorin. -He observes the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_283">[Pg 283]</span> sea-gull; she tells him that Constantine killed it. -Trigorin makes a note in his notebook. “What are you writing?” she -says. “An idea has occurred to me,” he answers, “an idea for a short -story: On the banks of a lake a young girl lives from her infancy -onwards. She loves the lake like a sea-gull, she is happy and free like -a sea-gull; but unexpectedly a man comes and sees her, and out of mere -idleness kills her, just like this sea-gull.” Here Arkadina again calls -out that they are not going to Moscow after all. This is the end of the -second act.</p> - -<p>At the third act, Arkadina is about to leave the country for Moscow. -Things have come to a crisis. Ina has fallen in love with the author, -and Constantine’s jealousy and grief have reached such a point that -he has tried to kill himself and failed, and now he has challenged -Trigorin to a duel. The latter has taken no notice of this, and is -about to leave for Moscow with Arkadina. Ina begs him before he goes -to say good-bye to her. Arkadina discusses with her brother her son’s -strange and violent behaviour. He points out that the youth’s position -is intolerable. He is a clever boy, full of talent, and he is obliged -to live in the country without any money, without a situation. He is -ashamed of this, and afraid of his idleness. In any case, he tells -his sister, she ought to give him some money, he has not even<span class="pagenum" id="Page_284">[Pg 284]</span> got an -overcoat; to which she answers that she has not got any money. She is -an artist, and needs every penny for her own expenses. Her brother -scoffs at this, and she gets annoyed. A scene follows between the -mother and the son, which begins by an exchange of loving and tender -words, and which finishes in a violent quarrel. The mother is putting -a new bandage on his head, on the place where he had shot himself. -“During the last few days,” says Constantine, “I have loved you as -tenderly as when I was a child; but why do you submit to the influence -of that man?”—meaning Trigorin. And out of this the quarrel arises. -Constantine says, “You wish me to consider him a genius. His works -make me sick.” To which his mother answers, “That is jealousy. People -who have no talent and who are pretentious, have nothing better to -do than to abuse those who have real talent.” Here Constantine flies -into a passion, tears the bandage off his head, and cries out, “You -people only admit and recognise what you do yourselves. You trample -and stifle everything else!” Then his rage dies out, he cries and asks -forgiveness, and says, “If you only knew, I have lost everything. She -no longer loves me; I can no longer write; all my hopes are dead!” They -are once more reconciled. Only Constantine begs that he may be allowed -to keep out of Trigorin’s sight. Trigorin<span class="pagenum" id="Page_285">[Pg 285]</span> comes to Arkadina, and -proposes that they should remain in the country. Arkadina says that she -knows why he wishes to remain; he is in love with Ina. He admits this, -and asks to be set free.</p> - -<p>Up to this point in the play there had not been a syllable to tell -us what were the relations between Arkadina and Trigorin, and yet -the spectator who sees this play guesses from the first that he is -her lover. She refuses to let him go, and by a somewhat histrionic -declaration of love cleverly mixed with flattery and common sense she -easily brings him round, and he is like wax in her fingers. He settles -to go. They leave for Moscow; but before they leave, Trigorin has a -short interview with Ina, in which she tells him that she has decided -to leave her home to go on the stage, and to follow him to Moscow. -Trigorin gives her his address in Moscow. Outside—the whole of this -act takes place in the dining-room—we hear the noise and bustle of -people going away. Arkadina is already in the carriage. Trigorin and -Ina say good-bye to each other, he gives her a long kiss.</p> - -<p>Between the third and fourth acts two years elapse. We are once more -in the home of Arkadina’s brother. Constantine has become a celebrated -writer. Ina has gone on the stage and proved a failure. She went to -Moscow; Trigorin<span class="pagenum" id="Page_286">[Pg 286]</span> loved her for a while, and then ceased to love her. -A child was born. He returned to his former love, and in his weakness, -played a double game on both sides. She is now in the town, but her -father will not receive her. Arkadina arrives with Trigorin. She has -been summoned from town because her brother is ill. Everything is going -on as it was two years ago. Arkadina, the agent, and the doctor sit -down to a game of Lotto before dinner. Arkadina tells of her triumphs -in the provincial theatres, of the ovations she received, of the -dresses she wore. The doctor asks her if she is proud of her son being -an author. “Just fancy,” she replies, “I have not yet read his books, I -have never had time!” They go in to supper. Constantine says he is not -hungry, and is left alone. Somebody knocks at the glass door opening -into the garden. Constantine opens it; it is Ina. Ina tells her story; -and now she has got an engagement in some small provincial town, and -is starting on the following day. Constantine declares vehemently that -he loves her as much as ever. He cursed her, he hated her, he tore up -her letters and photographs, but every moment he was forced to admit -to himself that he was bound to her for ever. He could never cease to -love her. He begs her either to remain, or to let him follow her. She -takes up her hat, she must go. She says she is a wandering sea-gull, -and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_287">[Pg 287]</span> that she is very tired. From the dining-room are heard the voices -of Arkadina and Trigorin. She listens, rushes to the door, and looks -through the keyhole. “He is here, too,” she says, “do not tell him -anything. I love him, I love him more than ever.” She goes out through -the garden. Constantine tears up all his MSS. and goes into the next -room. Arkadina and the others come out of the dining-room, and sit -down once more to the card-table to play Lotto. The agent brings to -Trigorin the stuffed sea-gull which Constantine had shot two years ago, -and which had been the starting-point of Trigorin’s love episode with -Ina. He has forgotten all about it; he does not even remember that the -sea-gull episode ever took place. A noise like a pistol shot is heard -outside. “What is that?” says Arkadina in fright. “It is nothing,” -replies the doctor, “one of my medicine bottles has probably burst.” -He goes into the next room, and returns half a minute later. “It was -as I thought,” he says, “my ether bottle has burst.” “It frightened -me,” says Arkadina, “it reminded me of how....” The doctor turns over -the leaves of the newspaper. He then says to Trigorin, “Two months ago -there was an article in this Review written from America. I wanted to -ask you....” He takes Trigorin aside, and then whispers to him, “Take -Irina Nikolaievna away as soon as possible. The fact of<span class="pagenum" id="Page_288">[Pg 288]</span> the matter is -that Constantine has shot himself.”</p> - -<p>Of all the plays of Tchekov, <i>Chaika</i> is the one which most -resembles ordinary plays, or the plays of ordinary dramatists. It has, -no doubt, many of Tchekov’s special characteristics, but it does not -show them developed to their full extent. Besides which, the subject -is more dramatic than that of his other plays; there is a conflict in -it—the conflict between the son and the mother, between the older and -the younger generation, the older generation represented by Trigorin -and the actress, the younger generation by Constantine. The character -of the actress is drawn with great subtlety. Her real love for her -son is made just as plain as her absolute inability to appreciate his -talent and his cleverness. She is a mixture of kindness, common sense, -avarice, and vanity. Equally subtle is the character of the author, -with his utter want of wit; his absorption in the writing of short -stories; his fundamental weakness; his egoism, which prevents him -recognising the existence of any work but his own, but which has no -tinge of ill-nature or malice in it. When he returns in the last act, -he compliments Constantine on his success, and brings him a Review -in which there is a story by the young man. Constantine subsequently -notices that in the Review the only pages<span class="pagenum" id="Page_289">[Pg 289]</span> which are cut contain a -story by Trigorin himself.</p> - -<p>If <i>Chaika</i> is the most dramatically effective of Tchekov’s plays, -the most characteristic is perhaps <i>The Cherry Garden</i>. It is -notably characteristic in the symbolical and historical sense, for -it depicts for us the causes and significance of the decline of the -well-born, landed gentry in Russia.</p> - -<p>A slightly Bohemian lady belonging to this class, Ranievskaia—I will -call her Madame Ranievskaia for the sake of convenience, since her -Christian name “Love” has no equivalent, as a name, in English—is -returning to her country estate with her brother Leonidas after an -absence of five years. She has spent this time abroad in Nice and -Paris. Her affairs and those of her brother are in a hopeless state. -They are heavily in debt. This country place has been the home of her -childhood, and it possesses a magnificent cherry orchard. It is in the -south of Russia.</p> - -<p>In the first act we see her return to the home of her childhood—she -and her brother, her daughter, seventeen years old, and her adopted -daughter. It is the month of May. The cherry orchard is in full -blossom; we see it through the windows of the old nursery, which is -the scene of the first act. The train arrives at dawn, before sunrise. -A neighbour is there to meet them,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_290">[Pg 290]</span> a rich merchant called Lopachin. -They arrive with their governess and their servant, and they have been -met at the station by another neighbouring landowner. And here we see a -thing I have never seen on the stage before: a rendering of the exact -atmosphere that hangs about such an event as (<i>a</i>) the arrival of -people from a journey, and (<i>b</i>) the return of a family to its -home from which it has long been absent. We see at a glance that Madame -Ranievskaia and her brother are in all practical matters like children. -They are hopelessly casual and vague. They take everything lightly and -carelessly, like birds; they are convinced that something will turn up -to extricate them from their difficulties.</p> - -<p>The merchant, who is a nice, plain, careful, practical, but rather -vulgar kind of person, is a millionaire, and, what is more, he is the -son of a peasant; he was born in the village, and his father was a -serf. He puts the practical situation very clearly before them. The -estate is hopelessly overloaded with debt, and unless these debts are -paid within six months, the estate will be sold by auction. But there -is, he points out, a solution to the matter. “As you already know,” he -says to them, “your cherry orchard will be sold to pay your debts. The -auction is fixed for the 22nd of August, but do not be alarmed, there -is a way out of the difficulty.... This is my plan.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_291">[Pg 291]</span> Your estate is -only 15 miles from the town, the railway is quite close, and if your -cherry orchard and the land by the river is cut up into villa holdings, -and let for villas, you will get at the least 25,000 roubles (£2500) a -year.” To which the brother replies, “What nonsense!” “You will get,” -the merchant repeats, “at the very least twenty-five roubles a year a -desiatin,”—a desiatin is about two acres and a half: much the same as -the French hectare,—“and by the autumn, if you make the announcement -now, you will not have a single particle of land left. In a word, I -congratulate you; you are saved. The site is splendid, only, of course, -it wants several improvements. For instance, all these old buildings -must be destroyed, and this house, which is no use at all, the old -orchard must be cut down.”</p> - -<div class="blockquot"> - -<p><i>Madame Ranievskaia</i>: Cut down? My dear friend, forgive me, you -do not understand anything at all! If in the whole district there is -anything interesting, not to say remarkable, it is this orchard.</p> - -<p><i>Lopachin</i>: The orchard is remarkable simply on account of its -size.</p> - -<p><i>Leonidas</i>: The orchard is mentioned in the Encyclopædia.</p> - -<p><i>Lopachin</i>: If we do not think of a way out of the matter and -come to some plan, on the 22nd of August the cherry orchard and the -whole<span class="pagenum" id="Page_292">[Pg 292]</span> property will be sold by auction. Make up your minds; there is -no other way out, I promise you.</p> -</div> - -<p>But it is no good his saying anything. They merely reply, “What -nonsense!” They regard the matter of splitting up their old home into -villas as a sheer impossibility. And this is the whole subject of -the play. The merchant continues during the second act to insist on -the only practical solution of their difficulties, and they likewise -persist in saying this solution is madness, that it is absolutely -impossible. They cannot bring themselves to think of their old home -being turned into a collection of villas; they keep on saying that -something will turn up, an old aunt will die and leave them a legacy, -or something of that kind will happen.</p> - -<p>In the third act, the day of the auction has arrived, there is a dance -going on in the house. The impression is one of almost intolerable -human sadness, because we know that nothing has turned up, we know that -the whole estate will be sold. The whole picture is one of the ending -of a world. At the dance there are only the people in the village, the -stationmaster, the post-office officials, and so forth. The servant -they have brought from abroad gives notice. An old servant, who belongs -to the house, and is in the last stage of senile decay, wanders -about murmuring of old times and<span class="pagenum" id="Page_293">[Pg 293]</span> past brilliance. The guests dance -quadrilles through all the rooms. Leonidas has gone to the auction, and -Madame Ranievskaia sits waiting in hopeless suspense for the news of -the result. At last he comes back, pale and tired, and too depressed -to speak. The merchant also comes triumphantly into the room; he is -slightly intoxicated, and with a triumphant voice he announces that he -has bought the cherry garden.</p> - -<p>In the last act, we see them leave their house for ever, all the -furniture has been packed up, all the things which for them are so full -of little associations; the pictures are off the walls, the bare trees -of the cherry garden—for it is now autumn—are already being cut down, -and they are starting to begin a new life and to leave their old home -for ever. The old house, so charming, so full of old-world dignity and -simplicity, will be pulled down, and make place for neat, surburban -little villas to be inhabited by the new class which has arisen in -Russia. Formerly there were only gentlemen and peasants, now there is -the self-made man, who, being infinitely more practical, pushes out the -useless and unpractical gentleman to make way for himself. The pathos -and naturalness of this last act are extraordinary. Every incident that -we know so well in these moments of departure is noted and rendered. -The old servant, who belongs to the house, is supposed to<span class="pagenum" id="Page_294">[Pg 294]</span> be in the -hospital, and is not there to say good-bye to them; but when they -are all gone, he appears and closes the shutters, saying, “It is all -closed, they are gone, they forgot me; it doesn’t matter, I will sit -here. Leonidas Andreevitch probably forgot his cloak, and only went in -his light overcoat, I wasn’t there to see.” And he lies motionless in -the darkened, shuttered room, while from outside comes the sound of the -felling of the cherry orchard.</p> - -<p>Of course, it is quite impossible in a short analysis to give any idea -of the real nature of this play, which is a tissue of small details, -every one of which tells. Every character in it is living; Leonidas, -the brother, who makes foolish speeches and is constantly regretting -them afterwards; the plain and practical merchant; the good-natured -neighbour who borrows money and ultimately pays it back; the governess; -the clerk in the estate office; the servants, the young student who is -in love with the daughter,—we learn to know all these people as well -as we know our own friends and relations, and they reveal themselves -as people do in real life by means of a lifelike representation of the -conversation of human beings. The play is historical and symbolical, -because it shows us why the landed gentry in Russia has ceased to have -any importance, and how these amiable, unpractical, casual people must -necessarily<span class="pagenum" id="Page_295">[Pg 295]</span> go under, when they are faced with a strong energetic -class of rich, self-made men who are the sons of peasants. Technically -the play is extraordinarily interesting; there is no conflict of wills -in it, nothing which one could properly call action or drama, and yet -it never ceases to be interesting; and the reason of this is that the -conversation, the casual remarks of the characters, which seem to be -about nothing, and to be put there anyhow, have always a definite -purpose. Every casual remark serves to build up the architectonic -edifice which is the play. The structure is built, so to speak, in air; -it is a thing of atmosphere, but it is built nevertheless with extreme -care, and the result when interpreted, as it is interpreted at Moscow -by the actors of the artistic theatre, is a stage triumph.</p> - -<p>The three other most important plays of Tchekov are <i>Ivanoff</i>, -<i>Three Sisters</i>, and <i>Uncle Vania</i>,—the latter play has been -well translated into German.</p> - -<p><i>Three Sisters</i> is the most melancholy of all Tchekov’s plays. -It represents the intense monotony of provincial life, the grey life -which is suddenly relieved by a passing flash, and then rendered doubly -grey by the disappearance of that flash. The action takes place in a -provincial town. A regiment of artillery is in garrison there. One of -the three sisters, Masha, has married a schoolmaster; the two others, -Irina and Olga, are<span class="pagenum" id="Page_296">[Pg 296]</span> living in the house of their brother, who is a -budding professor. Their father is dead. Olga teaches in a provincial -school all day, and gives private lessons in the evening. Irina is -employed in the telegraph office. They have both only one dream and -longing, and that is to get away from the provincial corner in which -they live, and to settle in Moscow. They only stay on Masha’s account. -Masha’s husband is a kind and well-meaning, but excessively tedious -schoolmaster, who is continually reciting Latin tags. When Masha -married him she was only eighteen, and thought he was the cleverest man -in the world. She subsequently discovered that he was the kindest, but -not the cleverest man in the world. The only thing which relieves the -tedium of this provincial life is the garrison.</p> - -<p>When the play begins, we hear that a new commander has been appointed -to the battery, a man of forty called Vershinin. He is married, has -two children, but his wife is half crazy. The remaining officers in -the battery are Baron Tuzenbach, a lieutenant; Soleny, a major; and -two other lieutenants. Tuzenbach is in love with Irina, and wishes to -marry her; she is willing to marry him, but she is not in the least in -love with him, and tells him so. Masha falls passionately in love with -Vershinin. The major, Soleny, is jealous of Tuzenbach. Then suddenly -while<span class="pagenum" id="Page_297">[Pg 297]</span> these things are going on, the battery is transferred from the -town to the other end of Russia. On the morning it leaves the town, -Soleny challenges the Baron to a duel, and kills him. The play ends -with the three sisters being left alone. Vershinin says a passionate -good-bye to Masha, who is in floods of tears, and does not disguise her -grief from her husband. He, in the most pathetic way conceivable, tries -to console her, while the cheerful music of the band is heard gradually -getting fainter and fainter in the distance. Irina has been told of the -death of the Baron, and the sad thing about this is that she does not -really care. The three sisters are left to go on working, to continue -their humdrum existence in the little provincial town, to teach the -children in the school; the only thing which brought some relief to -their monotonous existence, and to one of the sisters the passion of -her life, is taken away from them, and the departure is made manifest -to them by the strains of the cheerful military band.</p> - -<p>I have never seen anything on the stage so poignantly melancholy as -this last scene. In this play, as well as in others, Tchekov, by the -way he presents you certain fragments of people’s lives, manages to -open a window on the whole of their life. In this play of <i>Three -Sisters</i> we get four glimpses. A birthday party in the first act; -an ordinary evening in the second act; in the<span class="pagenum" id="Page_298">[Pg 298]</span> third act a night of -excitement owing to a fire in the town, and it is on this night that -the love affair of Vershinin and Masha culminates in a crisis; and in -the fourth act the departure of the regiment. Yet these four fragments -give us an insight, and open a window on to the whole life of these -people, and, in fact, on to the lives of many thousand people who have -led this life in Russia.</p> - -<p>Tchekov’s plays are as interesting to read as the work of any -first-rate novelist. But in reading them, it is impossible to guess -how effective they are on the stage, the delicate succession of -subtle shades and half-tones, of hints, of which they are composed, -the evocation of certain moods and feelings which it is impossible -to define,—all this one would think would disappear in the glare -of the footlights, but the result is exactly the reverse. Tchekov’s -plays are a thousand times more interesting to see on the stage -than they are to read. A thousand effects which the reader does not -suspect make themselves felt on the boards. The reason of this is that -Tchekov’s plays realise Goethe’s definition of what plays should be. -“Everything in a play,” Goethe said, “should be symbolical, and should -lead to something else.” By symbolical, of course, he meant morally -symbolical,—he did not mean that the play should be<span class="pagenum" id="Page_299">[Pg 299]</span> full of enigmatic -puzzles, but that every event in it should have a meaning and cast a -shadow larger than itself.</p> - -<p>The atmosphere of Tchekov’s plays is laden with gloom, but it is a -darkness of the last hour before the dawn begins. His note is not in -the least a note of despair: it is a note of invincible trust in the -coming day. The burden of his work is this—life is difficult, there is -nothing to be done but to work and to continue to work as cheerfully as -one can; and his triumph as a playwright is that for the first time he -has shown in prose,—for the great poets have done little else,—behind -the footlights, what it is that makes life difficult. Life is too -tremendous, too cheerful, and too sad a thing to be condensed into -an abstract problem of lines and alphabetical symbols; and those who -in writing for the stage attempt to do this, achieve a result which -is both artificial and tedious. Tchekov disregarded all theories and -all rules which people have hitherto laid down as the indispensable -qualities of stage writing; he put on the stage the things which -interested him because they were human and true; things great or -infinitesimally small; as great as love and as small as a discussion as -to what are the best <i>hors d’œuvres</i>; and they interest us for the -same reason.</p> - - -<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES:</h3> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_24" href="#FNanchor_24" class="label">[24]</a> Two volumes of selections from his stories have been -admirably translated by <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Long.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_25" href="#FNanchor_25" class="label">[25]</a> It proved a success.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_26" href="#FNanchor_26" class="label">[26]</a> The dramatic critics of these newspapers are not the <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> -William Archers, the <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Walkleys, not the Faguets or the Lemaîtres -of Russia, if any such exist. I have never come across anything of -interest in their articles; on the other hand, they are perhaps more -representative of public opinion.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_27" href="#FNanchor_27" class="label">[27]</a> Since this was written <abbr title="mister">Mr.</abbr> Shaw’s genius has had greater -justice done to it in Russia. His <i>Cæsar and Cleopatra</i> has proved -highly successful. It was produced at the State Theatre of Moscow in -the autumn of 1909 and is still running as I write. Several intelligent -articles were written on it in the Moscow press.</p> - -</div> - -<div class="footnote"> - -<p><a id="Footnote_28" href="#FNanchor_28" class="label">[28]</a> Not to mention many modern French comedies, such as those -of Lemaître, Capus, etc.</p> - -</div> -</div> - - -<p class="center p4 small"> -<i>Printed by</i><br /> -<span class="smcap">Morrison & Gibb Limited</span><br /> -<i>Edinburgh</i><br /> -</p> - - -<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop" /> - -<div class="chapter transnote"> -<h2 class="nobreak" id="Transcribers_Notes">Transcriber’s Notes</h2> - - -<p>A few minor omissions and inconsistencies in punctuation have been -fixed.</p> - -<p>The <a href="#CHAPTER_VI">chapter on Dostoievky</a> was properly renumbered to VI instead of IV.</p> -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANDMARKS IN RUSSIAN LITERATURE ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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