The disease persisted in my uncle Mihail's family; the second and third generation were victims to it. My aunt Barbara's son was so stupid that his folly verged on idiocy. My uncle Andrey's son, a young and brilliant savant, died of creeping paralysis. The whole Dostoyevsky family suffered from neurasthenia.
IV
FIRST STEPS
When he had completed his studies at the Castle of the Engineers, Dostoyevsky obtained an appointment in the Department of Military Engineering. He did not keep it long and hastened to resign. His father was no longer there to force him to serve the State; he had no taste for military service, and longed more than ever to be a novelist. Young Grigorovitch followed his example. They determined to live together, set up in bachelors' quarters, and engaged a servant. Grigorovitch received money from his mother, who lived in the provinces. My father had an allowance from his guardian at Moscow, who sent him enough to live modestly. Unfortunately, my father always had very fantastic ideas concerning economy. All his life he was a Lithuanian Schliahtitch, who spent the money that was in his pocket without ever asking himself how he was to live the next day. Age failed to correct this. I remember a journey we made all together towards the end of his life, going to the Ukraine to spend the summer with my uncle Jean. We had to stay at Moscow a few days en route, and here, to the great indignation of my mother, Dostoyevsky insisted on putting up at the best hotel in the town, and took a suite of rooms on the first floor, whereas at Petersburg we had a very modest domicile. My mother protested in vain; she never succeeded in curing her husband of his prodigality. When we had relations coming to dinner on some family festival, my father always offered to go and buy the hors d'oeuvre, which play such an important part in a Russian dinner, the fruit, and the dessert. If my mother were imprudent enough to consent, Dos-toyevsky went to the best shops in the town and bought of all the good things he foimd there. I always smile when I read how Dmitri Karamazov bought provisions at Plotnikov's, before starting for Mokroe. I seem to see myself at Staraya-Russa, in that selfsame shop, where I sometimes went with my father, and observed with all the interest of a greedy child his original manner of providing for himself. When I went with my mother, she would come out carrying a modest parcel in her hand. When I accompanied my father, we left the shop empty-handed, but several small boys preceded or followed us to our house, gaily bearing big baskets and reckoning on a good tip. Like a true Schliahtitch, my father never asked himself whether he was rich or poor. Formerly, in Poland and in Lithuania, the native nobility starved at home, and arrived at all public gatherings in gilt coaches and magnificent velvet coats. They Uved crippled by debts, paying back only a tithe of what they had borrowed, never thinking of their financial position, amusing themselves, laughing and dancing. These racial defects take centuries to eradicate; many a descendant of Dostoyevsky's wiU yet have to suffer for the mad prodigality of their ancestors. There was, however, one important difference between my father and the Lithuanian Schliahtitchi. They thought only of living merrily, and cared little for others. He gave alms to all the poor he encountered, and was never able to refuse money to those who came to tell him of their misfortunes and beg him to help them. The tips he gave to servants for the smallest services were fabulous and exasperated my poor mother.
It is obvious that living in this manner my father spent more than his guardian could send him from Moscow. He got into debt, and, wishing to escape from the importunities of his creditors, he proposed to his guardian to barter his birthright for a comparatively small sum of ready money. Knowing nothing of newspapers or of publishers, Dostoyevsky ingenuously hoped to make a living by his pen. His guardian agreed to the bargain, which he ought never to have entertained. My aunts argued that their brother Fyodor knew nothing of business, and that he could be made to accept the most disadvantageous terms. They tried to repeat the process later on, when the Dostoyevsky family inherited some further property, and the struggle on which my father was forced to enter with his sisters darkened the close of his life. I shall speak of this business more fully in the final chapters of my book.
Having paid his debts, Dostoyevsky soon spent the little money he had left. He tried to make translations,28 but of course this brought in very little. At this juncture his aunt Kumanin came to his assistance and made him an allowance. She was a sister of his mother's, who had made a rich marriage, and hved in a fine house in Moscow, surrounded by a horde of devoted servants, and waited on and amused by a number of lady companions, poor women who trembled before her, and gave way to all the caprices of their wealthy despot. She patronised her nephews and nieces, and was particularly well disposed to my father, who was always her favourite. She alone of all the family appreciated his powers, and was always ready to come to his aid. My father was very fond of his old aunt Kumanin, though he made fun of her a little, like all her young nephews. He painted her in The Gambler, in the person of the old Moscow grandmother, who arrives in Germany, plays roulette, loses half her fortune and goes back to Moscow as suddenly as she came. At the time when roulette was flourishing in Germany, my great-aunt was too old to travel. It may be, however, that she played cards at Moscow, and lost large sums of money. When he depicted her as coming to Germany and playing roulette at his side, Dostoyevsky perhaps meant to show us whence came his passion for gaming.
28 It was at this time that he made an excellent translation of Eugenie Grandet.
It must not be supposed, however, that because my father spent a good deal of money he was leading a profligate life. Dostoyevsky's youth was studious and industrious. He went out very Uttle, and would sit all day at his writing-table, talking to his heroes, laughing, crying, and suffering with them. His friend Grigoro-vitch, more practical than he, while working at his writing, tried to make acquaintances useful to his future career, got himself introduced into literary society, and then introduced his friend Dostoyevsky. Grigorovitch was handsome, gay and elegant; he made love to the ladies, and charmed every one. My father was awkward, shy, taciturn, rather ugly; he spoke little, and hstened much. In the drawing-rooms they frequented the two friends met the young Turgenev, who had also come to embark upon the career of a novelist at Petersburg. My father admired him greatly. " I am in love with Turgenev," he wrote ingenuously to his brother Mihail, who, having completed his military studies was serving at Reval as an officer. " He is so handsome, so graceful, so elegant! " Turgenev accepted my father's homage with an air of condescension. He considered Dostoyevsky a nonentity.
Grigorovitch succeeded in making the acquaintance of the poet Nekrassov, who proposed to start a literary review. Grigorovitch was eager to be connected with this review in one way or another. His first works were not quite finished—he was rather too fond of society— but he knew that my father had written a novel and was perpetually correcting it, fearing he had not been very successful. Grigorovitch persuaded him to entrust the manuscript to him and took it to Nekrassov. The latter asked Grigorovitch if he were famihar with the work of his comrade, and hearing that he had not yet foimd time to read it, proposed that they should go through two or three chapters together, to see if it were worth anything. They read this first novel of my father's through at a sitting.29 Dawn was stealing in at the windows when they finished it. Nekrassov was astounded. "Let us go and see Dostoyevsky," he proposed; "I want to tell him what I think of his work." " But he is asleep, it is not yet morning," objected Grigorovitch. " What does it matter? This is more important than sleep ! " And the enthusiast set off, followed by Grigorovitch, to rouse my father at five o'clock in the morning, and inform him that he had an extraordinary talent.
29 It was called Poor Folks. Before writing it my father began a tragedy, Mary Stuart, which he laid aside in order to write a drama, Boris Godunov. The choice of these subjects is very significant. It is probable that in Dostoyevsky's early youth, the Norman blood of his paternal ancestors was at war in his heart with the MongoUan blood of his Moscow ancestors. But the Slav strain was the strongest and overcame the Norman and Mongolian atavisms. Dostoyevsky abandoned Mary Stuart and Boris Godunov, and gave us Poor Folks, which is fuU of the charming Slav sentiment of pity.
Later
