Turgenev belonged to this hereditary nobility,84 as did Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy, and most of the writers of this period. With the exception of Gontsharov, who was the son of a merchant, and Belinsky, who belonged to the lower middle classes, all my father's literary contemporaries—Grigorovitch, Pleschdev, Nekrassov, Soltikov, Danilevsky—were hereditary nobles. Some of them belonged to a much older nobihty than Turgenev— the poet MaiTcov, for instance. This close friend of my father's came of such an ancient stock that he had even the honour of reckoning a saint among his ancestors—^the famous Nil of Sorsk, canonised by the Orthodox Church.85 Of course, Turgenev's pretensions to a higher degree of nobility irritated his literary colleagues and seemed ridiculous to them. On the other hand, the Russian aristocrats smiled at his claims, and refused to treat him as a great personage when he appeared in their salons. He was mortified, and took his revenge on the Russian aristocracy by describing in his novel. Smoke, certain well-born adventurers, such as are to be found in all countries, but whom he represents as typical great Russian nobles.
84 The distinctive term " hereditary " is generally used in this connection, for there is in our country another nobility, known as " personal." It was introduced into Russia at the time when persons not belonging to the hereditary nobUity could be condemned to suffer corporal punishment. The title of " personal nobility " was conferred on citizens who had received the higher education of the universities, in order to secure their immunity from such punishments. The " personal " nobles could not be registered with the hereditary nobles, and enjoyed none of their privileges. After the abolition of corporal punishment, the distinction lost all meaning.
85 The Orthodox Church does not canonise saints until three or four centuries after their death.
Turgenev's megalomania, which is not uncommon in Russia, would not have prevented my father from remaining his friend. Snobbery is a malady more insidious than influenza. If we were to ostracise all the snobs we know, we should live in comparative solitude. Dostoyevsky would have pardoned Turgenev's weakness, as we forgive the lapses of those we love; yet my father broke with him, and ceased to frequent literary salons some time before his arrest and his condemnation to death. To understand the situation as between Dostoyevsky and his friends, the younger writers, we must go back a little.
Petersburg was never loved by the Russians. This artificial capital which Peter the Great created on the marshes, cold, damp, exposed to all the winds of the north, and plunged in darkness for three-quarters of the year, was obnoxious to my compatriots, who preferred the peaceful, sun-bathed cities of central Russia. Seeing that the Russians would not come and settle in Petersburg, our Emperors were obliged to people the new capital with Swedes and Germans of the Baltic Provinces. In the eighteenth century Petersburg was three-quarters German, and German society led the fashion there. Towards the beginning of the nineteenth century the Schillerian tone reigned in Germany, and passed thence into Russia. Every one became lyrical; men swore eternal friendship to each other; women fell into swoons at the noble sentiments they uttered, young girls embraced each other passionately, and wrote each other long letters full of lofty sentiments. Politeness became so exaggerated that when ladies received visitors they had to smile the whole time, and laugh at every word they uttered. This tone of exalted sentimentality is to be found in all the novels of the period.
When Moscow was burnt in 1812, many Moscowites fled to Petersburg and settled there. Other families followed their example, and Peter the Great'^ favourite capital soon became Russian. When my father entered the Engineers' School, Russian society was giving the tone in Petersburg. My compatriots, who are simple and sincere, thought the Schillerian pose ridiculous, and they were not altogether wrong; but unfortunately, in their reaction against this over-sentimental attitude, they fell Into the opposite extreme of brutahty. They declared that a self-respecting man should always speak the truth, and, under the guise of frankness, they became impudent. My grandmother, a Swede, brought up her children in the Schillerian tradition, and my mother has often told me how difficult her life became when she grew up and began to visit in Russian families. " It was no use to be polite and amiable," she said: " I received insults on every side. I could not even protest, for I should have been considered ridiculous. I could only retort by similar rudenesses." By degrees my compatriots began to enjoy these incivilities, and contests in insolence became the fashion. In drawing-rooms, at receptions, and at dinner-parties two men or two women would begin to attack each other with gross impertinence,^and as they warmed to this vulgar display the spectators would listen with interest, taking sides, now for one and now for the other. At bottom of these conversational cock-fights we find the Mongohan coarseness which lurks in the heart of every Russian, and emerges when he is angry, surprised, or ill. " Scratch the Russian and you will find the Tatar," say the French, who must often have noticed how a Russian of European education and distinguished manners became coarse and brutal as a moujik in a moment of anger.
Dostoyevsky, brought up by a father who was half Ukrainian, half Lithuanian, knew nothing of this Tatar brutality. If we may judge by the lyrical letters he wrote to his brother Mihail, and the extremely respectful epistles addressed to his father, the Schillerian tone must have reigned in my grandfather's family. Russian coarseness amazed Dostoyevsky when he first came in contact with it at the Engineers' School, and was, perhaps, the principal cause of his contempt for his schoolfellows. It astonished him still more when he encountered it in the literary salons of the period. As long as he remained obscure, he had not to suffer from it. He held his peace, and observed people; Grigorovitch, with whom he lived, had been brought up in the French tradition, and was always well-mannered. 86
86 Baron Wrangel, with whom my father lived in Siberia, had been brought up in the German manner, that is to say in the Schillerian tone, which he retained till the end of his life.
But when the unexpected success of his first novel excited the jealousy of the younger writers, they avenged themselves by calumnies and insults. My father could not defend himself effectually, for he could not be insolent. He was nervous and excitable, as the children of drunkards generally are. Losing his self-control, Dostoyevsky said absurd things, and excited the laughter of his unfeeling companions. Turgenev in particular delighted in tormenting him. He was of Tatar origin, and showed himself to be even more cruel and malicious than the others. Belinsky, who was a compassionate soul, sought in vain to defend my father, reproved his rivals, and tried to make them listen to reason. Turgenev seemed to find a special pleasure in inflicting suffering on his sensitive and nervous confrere. One evening in Panaev's house, Turgenev began to tell my father that he had just made the acquaintance of a conceited provincial, who considered himself a genius, and elaborated a caricature of Dostoyevsky. Those present listened with amusement; they expected one of those cock-fights which, as I have said, were so much in favour at the time. They applauded Turgenev and awaited Dostoyevsky's counter-attack with curiosity. My father was not a game-cock, but a gentleman; his sense of honour was more highly developed than that of the Russians who surrounded him. Finding himself thus grossly insulted, he turned pale, roscj and left the house without saying good-bye to any one.87 The young writers were much astonished. They sought out my father, sent him invitations, wrote to him—but all in vain. Dostoyevsky refused to frequent the hterary salons. The young writers were alarmed. They were only starting on their Uterary career and had as yet no position. Dostoyevsky was the favourite of the public, and his young confreres feared that the public would take his part and would accuse them of jealousy and malice. They had recourse to calumny— a favourite device of the Russians, or rather of all societies still in their infancy. They went about clamouring against Dostoyevsky as a pretentious upstart, who thought himself superior to every one, and was a mass of selfishness and ill-humour. My father allowed them to say what they would. He was indifferent to public opinion, and all his life he scorned to refute calumnies. When he cut himself off from BeUnsky's advice and the literary conversation of other writers, which was so necessary to him, he consoled himself with