58 Stellovsky, who was a regular usurer, threatened to send my father to prison, and the police despatched one of their officers to inform him of these threats. My father received the man pleasantly and talked to him with so much candovu- of his imfortu-nate financial position that the police officer was deeply touched. Instead of helping Stellovsky to get my father imprisoned, he placed all his legal knowledge at Dostoyevsky's service, to enable him to escape from the usurer's toils. He conceived a great admiration for my father, came to see him often and related to him many of the strange experiences he had had m the course of his career. It was thanks to this man that Dostoyevsky was able to treat the police element in Crime and Punishment in so masterly a manrier. This episode illustrates my father's manner of makmg friends, and shows us why he was able to transform the most savage convicts into faithful servants. It also indicates that the character of Prince Mishkin in The Idiot, who had the same faculty of transforming his enemies into friends, was reaUy Dostoyevsky's own portrait.
My father was in despair. It was then the beginning of October, and there was nothing but a rough copy of the novel. Dostoyevsky's friends were very anxious about him, and tried to hit upon some way of helping him. " Why don't you engage a stenographer? " said A. Milinkoff to him. " You could have dictated your novel to him, and he could have written it for you." At this time stenography was still a novelty in Russia. A certain Ohlin had studied it abroad and had just started some courses, in which he hurriedly prepared the first Russian stenographers. My father went to see him, explained his case, and asked Ohlin to send him a good stenographer. " Unfortunately," said Ohlin, " I cannot recommend any of my pupils. I only began my classes in the spring, I had to close them for the summer holidays, and in these three months my pupils forgot the little they had learnt. I have only one good pupil, but she does not want money, and has taken up stenography rather as a pastime than as a means of livelihood. She is still quite a girl, and I don't know if her mother would allow her to go and work for a man. In any case, I will offer her your work to-morrow, and I will let you know what she says."
The young girl of whom Ohlin spoke became in time my mother. Before relating Dostoyevsky's romance, I should like to say a few words about the family of his second wife, who was his guardian angel for the last fourteen years of his life.
My maternal grandfather, Grigor Ivanovitch Snitkin, was of Ukrainian origin. His ancestors were Cossacks who settled on the banks of the Dnieper near the town of Krementshug. They were called Snitko. When Ukrainia was annexed by Russia, they came to live in Petersburg, and to show their fidelity to the Russian Empire, they changed their Ukrainian name of Snitko into the Russian Snitkin. They did this in all sincerity, with no thought of flattery or servility. To them Ukrainia always remained Little Russia, the younger sister of the Great Russia which they admired with all their hearts. In Petersburg my great-grandparents continued to live after the Ukrainian tradition. At this time Ukrainia was under the influence of the Cathohc priests, who were reputed the best instructors of youth in the country. Accordingly, my great-grandfather, although he belonged to the Orthodox Church, placed his son Grigor in the Jesuits' College which had just been opened in Petersburg.59
59 It was subsequently closed by order of the Russian Government.
My grandfather received an excellent education there, such as the Jesuits generally give, but throughout his life he was the least Jesuitical of men. He was a true Slav : weak, timid, kind, sentimental and romantic. In his youth he had a grand passion for the celebrated Asen-kova, the only classical tragic actress we have had in Russia. He spent all his evenings at the theatre, and knew her monologues by heart. At this period the managers of the Imperial theatres used to allow the admirers of the artists to go and visit them behind the scenes. My grandfather's timid and respectful boyish passion pleased Asenkova, and she distinguished him in various little ways. It was to him she would hand her bouquet and her shawl when she went upon the stage to recite Racine and Corneille's beautiful verses; it was his arm she would take to return, trembling and exhausted, to her dressing-room, while the delighted audience applauded the beloved artist frantically. Other admirers sometimes begged for these privileges, but Asenkova always declared that they belonged to Gi-igor Ivanovitch. Poor Asenkova was very ill and weak; she was consumptive, and died very young. My grandfather's despair was unbounded; for years he could not enter the theatre, of which he had been a devotee. He never forgot the great actress, and often visited her grave. My mother told me that one day, when she was still a child, her father took her and her elder sister to the cemetery, made them kneel down by Asenkova's tomb, and said to them: " My children, pray to God for the repose of the soul of the greatest artist of our age."
I had supposed that this passion of my grandfather's was known only to our own family. I was therefore much astonished to find it in an historical journal, related by an old theatre-goer. He asserted that my grandfather's passion was not the love of a young man for a pretty woman, but admiration for the talent of a great artist. We must suppose that such a passion is very rare in Russia, or it would not have so impressed the old chronicler. He added a detail which was unknown to me. Shortly after the death of Asenkova one of her sisters made her dibut as a tragic actress. On the evening of her first performance, my grandfather reappeared in the theatre where he had not been seen since the death of his idol. He listened attentively to the young dibutante, but her acting did not please him and he disappeared once more.
My grandfather was of a type which ages very early. When he was thirty-five he had lost all his hair and most of his teeth. His face was lined and wrinkled, and he looked like an old man. It was, however, at this age that he married under somewhat strange circumstances.
My maternal grandmother, Maria Anna Miltopeus, was a Swede of Finland. She said that hei* ancestors were English, but that in the seventeenth century they had left their country as a result of the religious troubles there. They settled in Sweden, married Swedes, and subsequently migrated to Finland, where they bought land. Their English name must have been Miltope— or perhaps Milton !—for the termination " us" is Swedish. In Sweden men belonging to the learned professions—writers, scientists, doctors and clergymen— habitually added the syllable to their names. I do not know what was the calling of my great-grandfather Miltopeus; I only know that he had rendered such services to his country that he was buried in the Cathedral of Abo, the Westminster Abbey of Finland, and a marble tomb was raised to his memory.
My grandmother lost her parents while she was still very young, and was brought up by her aunts, who did not make her happy. As she grew up, she became very beautiful, quite in the Norman style. Tall and slender, with features of classic regularity, a dazzling complexion, blue eyes, and magnificent golden hair, she was the admiration of all who saw her. Maria Anna had a lovely voice; her friends called her " the second Christine Nilsson." Their compliments turned her head, and she determined to become a professional singer. She went to Petersburg, where her brothers were serving as officers in one of the regiments of the Imperial Guard, and disclosed her project to them.
" You must be mad I " exclaimed they. " Do you want to have us turned out of our regiment? Our brother officers would not allow us to remain in it if you were to become a professional singer." There has always been a very severe etiquette on such points in Russia : an officer was obliged to resign before marrying an artiste. Very probably in my grandmother's time no Russian officer had any relations on the stage. Maria Anna sacrificed her artistic ambitions to the military cal-eer of her brothers. She did so the more readily because, soon after her arrival in Petersburg, she fell in love with one of their comrades, a young Swedish officer. They became engaged and were about to be married, when war broke out; the Swede was sent to the front, and was one of the first to fall. Maria Anna was too proud to show her grief, but her heart was broken. She went on living with her brothers, but was perfectly indifferent to men; they had ceased to exist for her. Her sisters-in-law found the presence of this beautiful girl, who was extremely