Dostoyevsky, The Man Behind: Memoirs, Letters & Autobiographical Works. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

house. At nineteen she was, indeed, still a child. She did not realise that a woman who works for money will never be treated in the same manner as an ingenue flirting with the guests in her mother's drawing-room. She went home in a rage, and resolved that evening to write a letter to Dostoyevsky next day, explaining that her delicate health would prevent her from continuing her stenographic work. After sleeping on the matter, she came to the conclusion, however, that when one has begun a task one ought to finish it; that her teacher might be annoyed if for mere caprice she refused the first post he had found her, and might not recommend her again; that The Gambler had to be finished by the 1st of November, and that after this she would be under no obligation to continue working for the captious author. She got up, carefully copied what Dostoyevsky had dictated on the preceding day, and presented herself at his house at the appointed hour. She would have been very much alarmed if any one had predicted on that day that she would transcribe Dostoyevsky's novels for fourteen years.

       XV

      THE BETROTHAL

       Table of Contents

       My mother owned one of those albums with pink, blue and green pages to which young girls confide the great events of their days each evening. My mother opened hers the more readily because she could record her impressions in shorthand, and thus write a good deal in a limited time. She kept this artless journal of her youth, and this enabled her later to recall the story of her betrothal and of her honeymoon almost day by day. These interesting souvenirs of hers were about to be published when the great war broke out, and it was necessary to put oft their appearance to a more propitious season. I will not deprive my mother of the pleasure of describing this important period of her existence. I will content myself with tracing this phase of Dostoyevsky's life in broad outlines, and painting the romance of my parents from my own point of view, and from my own estimate of their characters.

      Having recovered from the first wound to her vanity, my mother set to work valiantly, and went every day to take down The Gambler from my father's dictation. Dostoyevsky gradually became conscious that his Remington machine was a charming young girl, and an ardent admirer of his genius. The emotion with which she spoke of his heroes and heroines pleased the novelist. He found his young stenographer very sympathetic, and got into the habit of confiding his troubles to her, telling her of the manner in which his brother's creditors were harassing him, and of the complicated affairs of his large family. My mother listened in surprise and consternation. Her girlish imagination had pictured the distinguished writer surrounded by admirers who formed a kind of bodyguard about him, preserving him from all dangers that might threaten his health or interfere with the creation of his masterpieces. In the place of this agreeable picture she saw a sick man, weary, badly fed, badly lodged, badly served, hunted down like a wild beast by merciless creditors, and ruthlessly exploited by selfish relatives. The great writer had only a few friends, who were content to give him their advice, but who never took the trouble to inform the Russian public or the Russian Government of the terrible straits to which this man of genius was reduced, and of the abyss which threatened to engulf his splendid talents. My mother's generous spirit was filled with indignation when she realised the neglect and indifference surrounding the great Russian. She conceived the idea of protecting Dostoyevsky, of sharing the heavy burden he had taken upon his shoulders, saving him from his rapacious relatives, helping him in his work, and comforting him in his sorrows. She was not, indeed, in love with this man, who was more than twenty-five years her senior. But she understood Dostoyevsky's beautiful soul as quickly as her father had formerly understood the pure soul of Asenkova, and reverenced his genius as her father had reverenced that of the young tragedienne. Just as my grandfather had considered Asenkova the greatest artist of our century, so my mother would never admit that there was any novelist equal to Dostoyevsky, not only in Russia, but in the whole world. In these two devotions, which were so closely akin, there was something of the Greek love of art, a rare sentiment in Russia, and one which the

      Ukrainians perhaps inherited from Greek colonists on the shores of the Black Sea. But my mother was only half an Ukrainian; she had also the Russian sense of pity, and she felt this holy pity of our race for this man of genius who was so kindly, so confiding, who never thought of self, and was so ready to give all he had to others. Young and strong, she desired to protect the famous writer, who was approaching his decline. His debts and his numerous obligations might have frightened a timid spirit. But my mother's Norman blood braced her for conflict; she was ready to do battle with her whole world.

      A Russian girl in my mother's position would have lost herself in the clouds, and would have passed her time dreaming of all the heroic circumstances in which she could give her life to Dostoyevsky. My mother, instead of dreaming, set to work energetically, and began by saving him from the clutches of his publisher. She begged Dostoyevsky to prolong their hours of dictation, spent the night copying out what she had taken down in the day, and worked with such goodwill that The Gambler was ready on the date fixed by Stel-lowsky, who was much chagrined to see that his prey had escaped from the trap he had prepared. Dostoyevsky was fully sensible that he could not have written his novel so quickly but for my mother's help, and he was deeply grateful to her for the passionate interest she showed in his affairs. He could not bear the thought of parting with her, and proposed that they should work together at the last chapters of Crime and Pwnishment, which were not yet written. My mother agreed willingly. To celebrate the happy conclusion of their first undertaking, she invited my father to come to tea, and presented him to her mother. My grandmother, who read her daughter's heart like an open book, and had long foreseen how her stenographic activities would end, received Dostoyevsky as a future son-in-law is received. That corner of Sweden transported to Russia attracted my father; it must have reminded him of the Lithuanian comer transported by his father to Moscow in which he had spent his childhood. Dostoyevsky saw in what an austere atmosphere his little stenographer had been reared, and how greatly she differed from the young girls of the day, who were leading the lives of prostitutes under the pretext of liberty. He began to think of marrying his young assistant, although he, again, was no more in love than was my mother. Like many Northerners, he had a somewhat cold temperament; it required the African devices of Maria Dmitrievna or the effrontery of Pauline to kindle passion in him. A well-brought-up young girl who never overstepped the limits of an innocent coquetry did not, of course, stir his senses. But he thought that this severely nurtured girl would be an excellent mother of a family, and it was this he had long been seeking. And yet he hesitated to make his proposal. The fact was that my mother seemed very childish to my father. She was about the same age as Anna Kronkovsky, but she was much less mature and self-confident than the young anarchist. Mile. Korvin-Kronkovsky's political, moral and rehgious ideas were all clearly defined. She was a severe critic of a world God had conceived so badly and executed so defectively, and was quite ready to correct the mistakes of the Creator. My mother bowed in reverence to God's will, and had no fault to find with His works. Her ideas of life were still very vague; she acted rather by instinct than by reflection. When she was talking to Dostoyevsky, she laughed and jested like the child she was. My father smiled as he listened to her, and thought to himself in alarm : " What should I do with such a baby to look after ? " This young girl, who only a year ago was still wearing a schoolgirl's apron, did not seem to him mature enough for marriage. It is probable that Dostoyevsky would have hesitated long, if a prophetic dream had not hastened his decision. He dreamed that he had lost some valuable object; he was seeking for it everywhere, turning out cupboards, impatiently throwing aside useless things, which were strewn on the floor of his room. All of a sudden he saw in the bottom of a drawer a very small diamond, which sparkled so brilliantly that it lighted up the whole room. He stared at it in amazement: how could the gem have got into that drawer? Who had put it there? Suddenly, as often happens in dreams, my father understood that the little diamond which shone with such lustre was his little stenographer. He woke up very happy and deeply moved. " I will ask her in marriage to-day," he said. He never regretted his decision. . . .

      After his betrothal to my mother, Dostoyevsky went to see her every day, but did not hasten to announce his approaching marriage to his relatives. He knew too well how they would receive the news. His stepson was the first to discover the secret. He was filled with consternation