The first book my father gave me was the History of Russia, by Karamzin, beautifully illustrated. He explained the pictures, which represented the arrival of Rurik at Kiev, the struggles of his son Igor against the nomad tribes who surrounded what was then the small Slav nation on every side, Vladimir introducing the Christian religion into his principality, Jaroslav promulgating the first European laws, and other descendants of Rurik, who founded Muscovy, defending the infant Great Russia against the invading Tatars. The Slavo-Norman princes became my favourite heroes. I heard their songs and war-cries as in a dream. My favourite heroine was Rogneda, daughter of the Norman prince Rogvolod; I liked to act her part in our childish plays. Later, when I began to travel in Europe, I sought the traces of my dear Normans everjrwhere. I was surprised to find Europeans talking always of Latin and Germanic culture, and forgetting that of the Normans. At the time when Europe was plunged in mediaeval barbarism, the Normans were already protecting liberty of conscience, and allowing the practice of all religions in their realms. Instead of worshipping power and riches they reverenced poets and men of learning, invited them to their courts, and even shared their labours. Thus in Sicily the Norman prince Roger II helped the learned Arab Edrizy to write the first geography under the artless title of The Joy of Him Who Loves to Travel. The civilisation of the Normans was so advanced for their period that it could not find admittance in barbarous Europe; it could only subsist in small forgotten countries such as Lithuania and Sicily. And yet this fine civilisation is not dead; it lives on in souls of Norman descent, and manifests itself from time to time in some great poet or writer.
One thing which struck me as strange at a later date, when I began to analyse this period of my life, was the fact that my father never gave me any children's books. Robinson Crusoe was the only work of this kind I read, and this my mother gave me. I suppose Dostoyevsky knew nothing about children's books. In his youth they did not exist as yet in Russia, and he must have begun to read the works of the great writers at the age of eight or nine. Another thing, still more curious, strikes me when I recall our conversations. Dostoyevsky, who spoke to me with so much pleasure of literature, never uttered a single word to me about his childhood. My mother told me of the smallest details in her life as a little girl, described her earliest impressions, and her affection for her brother, but I cannot recall a single detail of my father's childhood. He maintained the same reserve as his father before him, who would never tell his sons anything about their grandfather or their Ukrainian uncles.
Dostoyevsky superintended our religious education, and liked to worship in company with his family. In Russia we communicate once a year, and we prepare for this solemn event by a week of prayer. My father performed his rehgious duties reverently, fasted, went to church twice a day, and laid aside all literary work. He loved our beautiful Holy Week services, especially the Resurrection Mass with its joyful hymns. Children do not attend this mass, which begins at midnight, and ends between two and three in the morning. But my father wished me to be present at this wonderful ceremony when I was barely nine years old. He placed me on a chair, that I might be able to follow it, and with his arms around me, explained the meaning of the holy rites.
XXIV
DOSTOYEVSKY AND TURGENEV
Before passing on to my father's last years, I should like to say a few words about his relations with Turgenev and Tolstoy. In talking to Dostoyevsky's European admirers, I have always noticed that they were specially interested in these relations.
My father's acquaintance with Turgenev began when they were both young, and both full of ambition, as young people beginning life generally are. They were as yet unknown to the Russian public; their talent had hardly developed. They frequented the same Uterary salons, listened to the same critics, and worshipped the same masters—^their favourite poets and novelists. Turgenev attracted my father greatly; Dostoyevsky admired him as one student admires another who is handsomer and more distinguished than himself, is a greater favourite with women, and seems to him an ideal man. However, as Dostoyevsky learned to know Turgenev better, his admiration gradually changed to aversion. Later he called Turgenev " that poseur." This opinion of Dostoyevsky's was shared by most of his hterary colleagues. Later, when I myself questioned the older Russian writers about their relations with Turgenev, I always noted the somewhat contemptuous tone they adopted in speaking of him, which disappeared when they talked of Tolstoy. Turgenev had deserved their contempt to some extent. He was one of those men who cannot be natural, who always want to pass themselves off as something they are not. In his youth he posed as an aristocrat, a pose which had no sort of justification. The Russian aristocracy is very restricted; it is rather a coterie than a class. It is composed of the few descendants of the ancient Russian and Ukrainian boyards, some chiefs of Tatar tribes assimilated by Russia, a few barons of the Baltic Provinces and a few Pohsh counts and princes. All these people are brought up in the same manner, know each other, are nearly all related, and have intermarried with the European aristocracies. They give magnificent entertainments to foreign ambassadors, and enhance the prestige of the Russian Coiu-t. They have very little influence on the politics of their country, which, since the second half of the nineteenth century, have been gradually passing into the hands of our hereditary nobiUty. This is perfectly distinct from the aristocracy, and has nothing in common with the feudal nobility of Europe. I have already explained its origin in describing the Lithuanian Schliahta. This union, primarily a martial one in Poland and Lithuania, was in Russia transformed into an agrarian union of rural proprietors. Catherine II protected them, desiring to create a sort of Third Estate in Russia. The landed proprietors in each province combined and chose a Marshal of the nobility to superintend their affairs. He did this gratis, sometimes ruining himself by giving balls and sumptuous dinners to the nobles who had elected him. Nevertheless, the post of Marshal of the nobiUty was always greatly in request, for it conferred many privileges. The Emperor always bestowed the rank of Gentleman or Chamberlain on the elected Marshal, and invited him to all Court festivities. The Marshal of the nobility was quite independent of Ministers, and might ask for an audience of the Emperor at any time to speak of the affairs of the nobles in his province. Oiu: Tsars always patronised these unions, and even attempted to represent themselves as hereditary nobles. Thus Nicolas I declared that he was " the first noble of the Empire." The Grand Dukes bought estates in the provinces, fraternised with the members of the union, and signed telegrams addressed to the Marshal, " Hereditary Noble " instead of " Grand Duke." The Tsar readily accepted invitations from the nobles, and when he and his family lunched, dined or took tea at one of the provincial Assemblies, tried to ignore his Imperial dignity and to play the part of the noble, Romanov. I have been present at some of these Imperial visits, and I was surprised at the absence of etiquette and the patriarchal simplicity that obtained. The Russian aristocrats in their turn caused their names to be inscribed in the registers of the nobility, and manoeuvred for election to the office of Marshal. They were by no means always successful. Very often at the elections a prince would be rejected, and a noble, more obscure, but more highly esteemed, would be chosen. The utmost equality reigned in the Assemblies; the Russian nobility had no quarterings, and a recently ennobled member had the same rights as those belonging to the noblest families. The unions became very rich in time, for unmarried or childless members often bequeathed their fortunes, their estates and their houses to the nobility of their district. After the emancipation of the serfs most of the landowners were ruined and had to sell their properties. The unions of the nobles were wise enough not to forsake them; thanks to their wealth, they were able to grant pensions to widows, and allowances for the education of orphans. Russian parents are so improvident, and think so little of the future of their children, that