Dostoevsky Portrayed by His Wife

The Diary and Reminiscences of Mme. Dostoevsky

Samuel Koteliansky, Samuel Solomonovisch Koteliansky

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2014
• ISBN:
  9781317664116
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: European Literary Collections
• Index: Literature

The two note-books of the diary of Mme. Dostoevsky, the rough notes of her lengthy Reminiscences, unfinished at the time of her death, all in her own hand-writing, and copies of her husband's letters to her from 1866 to 1881, were found in August 1922.

The Diary is a large volume of about 400 pages, published in the original Russian by the Central Archives in 1923. Both note-books relate to the time when the Dostoevskys were living abroad – in Berlin, Dresden and Baden – whilst the Reminiscences was intended as a complete character portrait.

This volume, first published in 1923, presents such selections from the entries in the diary, the Reminiscences, and correspondence as is valuable for the better understanding of Dostoevsky. It offers remarkable insights into his often opaque personality, particularly in relation to his personal habits, his manner and character, and his relationship with his devoted wife, Anna Gregorevna.

Part I The Reminiscences of Mme. Dostoevsky (1866)

Reminiscences of MME. Dostoevsky

DOI: 10.4324/9781315767666-1

The Eve of my Acquaintance with F. M. Dostoevsky

ON the 3rd October, 1866, about seven o’clock in the evening, I arrived at the Sixth Grammar School (by the Tchernyshev Bridge) to attend Professor P. M. Olkhin’s shorthand class. The lesson had not yet begun. I sat down in my usual seat, and had just started arranging my exercise books when our professor came up, sat down on the bench near me and said: “Would you like to undertake some shorthand work? I have been asked to find a shorthand writer, and it occurred to me that you might like to take on the work.” I answered him that I was longing to find work, but doubted if I knew shorthand well enough to undertake any responsible work. Mr. Olkhin said that the work in question would not need greater speed than I possessed (one hundred words a minute), and that he was sure that I should be able to manage it satisfactorily. Then I asked who was to give me the work. “Dostoevsky, the author. He is now writing a new novel and wants to write it with the help of shorthand. Dostoevsky thinks that the novel will contain about seven folios of large size, and he offers fifty roubles for the work.” On my expressing my consent, Mr. Olkhin gave me a folded piece of paper on which was written Dostoevsky’s addresss, and said to me: “I’ll ask you to be at Dostoevsky’s to-morrow at half past eleven sharp, not earlier and not later; that is how he put it to me to-day. I am only afraid that you won’t make friends with him_ he is such a gloomy, stern man.” I gave an involuntary smile, and said to Mr. Olkhin: “But why should we be friends? I’ll try to do my work as well as I can. Dostoevsky, the writer, I respect so much that I am even afraid of him, and this somewhat frightens me.”

Mr. Olkhin looked at his watch, went to the chair and began his lecture. I must confess that this time his lecture was wasted on me. My thoughts were occupied with the conversation that had just taken place, and I was filled with happy thoughts. My cherished dream was to be realised: I had got work. If Olkhin, so strict and exacting, found that I knew shorthand and wrote quickly enough, then it must, indeed, be so; otherwise he would not offer me the work. Olkhin’s recognition of the progress I had made delighted me and raised me in my own eyes. I think that to everyone the first independent work in any branch whatever, must have a great, perhaps even an exaggerated importance. Of such importance to me, too, was my first work. I felt as if I were advancing along a new road, that I could earn money with my own labour, that I was becoming quite independent; and the idea of independence to me, a giil of the ‘sixties, was the dearest of all. But still more pleasant and important than the work itself was the chance of working with Dostoevsky, of getting to know the writer personally. Indeed, he was my father’s favourite author, and the name of Dostoevsky had been familiar to me from my childhood. I myself was enraptured by his works and had cried over Memoirs from the Dead House. And, all at once, the happiness, the great luck—not only of making the acquaintance of the famous novelist, but of actually helping him with his work! My agitation was intense, I wished to share my joy with someone. I could not help telling it all to my colleague, Alexandra Ivanovna I., who had just come into the class-room. She was much older than myself, quite clever, extraordinarily bold, sharp-tongued and very capable, but she often missed her lessons. Hearing of the work offered to me, she was a bit shocked that Olkhin had offered it to me and not to her; for she considered herself the best pupil. She congratulated me on the commencement of my shorthand career, and began asking me questions; but I did not answer them, for I knew that Olkhin did not like the students to talk during the lessons. But when the lesson was over, Mile. I. had her curiosity satisfied. I walked with her as far as her house, and then took the coach, and in half an hour’s time I was at home. I told my mother all the particulars, and she, too, was very glad: we talked for a long time of my luck. From joy and excitement I scarcely slept the whole night, picturing Dostoevsky to myself. Considering him a contemporary of my father, I imagined him as a quite elderly man. Now I imagined him as a stout and bald-headed old man; now as tall and awfully thin, but always stern and gloomy, as Olkhin had described him. Above all, I was agitated as to what I should say to him. He seemed to me so learned, so wise, that I trembled beforehand for every word I might say. I was also upset by the idea that I did not clearly remember the Christian names and surnames of his characters, and I felt sure that he was bound to talk of them. Never having met authors in my circle I imagined them as different beings, who had to be spoken to in quite a special way. Recalling to my mind those days, I see what a child I was then, in spite of my “respectable” twenty years.

My First Meeting with F. M. Dostoevsky

On 4th October, the momentous day of my first meeting with my future husband, I awoke cheerfully, happy and excited by the idea that to-day my long-cherished dream was to be realised: from a schoolgirl and undergraduate I was to become an independent worker in the field chosen by myself.

I left the house a little earlier so as to call at the Gostiny Dvor to get a fresh supply of pencils and to buy a little portfolio which, in my opinion, would give my youthful appearance a more businesslike look. By eleven o’clock I completed my purchases and in order to get to Dostoevsky’s at the appointed time, “neither earlier nor later”¹ I walked with slow steps along the Bolshaya Meschanskaya and Stoliarny Lane, continually consulting my watch. At twenty-five past eleven I came up to the house, and asked the concierge, who stood at the gate, where flat No. 13 was. He pointed to the right, where, by the very gates, was an entrance to a staircase. The house was a large one, with a great number of small flats, inhabited by small shopkeepers and artisans. It at once reminded me of the house in Crime and Punishment in which Raskolnikov, the hero of the novel, lived. Flat No. 13 was on the third floor, reached by an ugly staircase, from which at that moment were coming down two or three men of a rather suspicious appearance. I rang the bell, and immediately the door was opened by a middle-aged woman, with a green checkered shawl thrown over her shoulders. I had read Crime and Punishment so recently and remembered so well the Marmeladovs’ checkered” family “shawl, that the identical shawl on Dostoevsky’s servant involuntarily struck my eyes. To her question whom I wanted to see, I said that I came from Mr. Olkhin, and that her master knew that I was coming.

¹ This was Dostoevsky’s usual expression. In order not to lose time in waiting for someone he would fix the exact time, always adding “neither earlier, nor later/’—A.G.D.

I had not yet had time to undo my scarf when the door into the hall opened wide, and in the background of a bright sunlit room there appeared a young man, quite dark, with dishevelled hair, with an open chest and in slippers. On seeing an unfamiliar face he cried out, and instantly disappeared behind a side door. The woman asked me into a room which was the dining-room. It was quite modestly furnished. Near the walls stood two large trunks covered with carpets. A chest of drawers stood by the window and was covered with a white, knitted cloth. Against the wall stood a sofa and over it a clock. I felt great relief when, at that moment, I saw the clock showing half past eleven. The woman asked me to take a seat, saying that her master would come in presently. Indeed, in a couple of minutes Dostoevsky appeared and asked me to come into his study on the right, and himself went out, as it turned out later, to order tea.

Dostoevsky’s study was a large room with two windows, which was very bright that day, but at other times produced a gloomy impression; it was rather dark and still; one felt oppressed by that strange stillness. In a far corner of the room stood a couch covered with a brown cloth, rather worn, and in front of it was a round table, covered with a red cloth; on the table stood a lamp and a couple of albums, and round it were easy chairs and stools. Over the couch in a walnut frame hung a portrait of a very thin lady, in a black dress and a black bonnet. “This is probably his wife,” I thought, as I did not know anything about his family life. Between the windows was a large mirror in a black walnut frame. As the space between the windows was much wider than the mirror, the latter was nearer to the right window, which was un-symmetrical and ugly. Two large Chinese vases of a beautiful shape stood on the window sills. Against the wall was a large divan of green morocco leather and near it a little table with a jug of water. Against the back wall, across the room, stood a writing table, at which I always sat afterwards when Dostoevsky dictated to me. The furniture was most ordinary, similar to what I had seen in the houses of not too prosperous people. I sat and listened, thinking that I should presently hear the voices of children, or the noise of a child’s drum, or that the door would open and there would come into the study the unusually thin lady whose portrait I had just recently been examining.

But Dostoevsky came in. To start a conversation he asked me how long I had been working at shorthand. I replied that I had been learning it for the last six months. “Has your teacher, Olkhin, many pupils?” he asked. “At first there came over one hundred and fifty applicants, but there remain now only about twenty-five.” “But why so few?” he asked. “Many of them thought that it was quite easy to learn shorthand; but when they saw that it could not be done in a few weeks, they gave it up,” I said. “With us,” he said, “it is always like that in every new thing: many start ardently, but cool down quickly and give it up. They see that application is needed, and who wants to work now?”

Dostoevsky seemed strange to me.

At the first glance he looks rather old, but presently one can see that he is not more than thirty-seven. He is of middle height, erect. His face is worn, sickly. Bright brown, even slightly reddish hair, well greased and strangely smoothed. His eyes fail to match.²

² During one of his epileptic fits he fell down and stumbled on a sharp object, and so injured his right eye. Professor Yunge, who treated him, prescribed atropine, owing to which the pupil of his eye was dilated.—A.G.D.

One is an ordinary brown eye, the pupil of the other is very much dilated, and the iris cannot be seen. This dissimilarity gives his face a mysterious expression. Dostoevsky’s face appeared very familiar to me, probably because I had seen his portraits before. He was dressed in a rather old blue jacket, but his shirt was snow-white. To tell the truth, at first sight I did not at all take to him.

Five minutes after my arrival the woman came in and brought two glasses of very strong, almost black tea. On the tray were two rolls. I took a glass, and although I did not want tea, and even felt hot, I began drinking it so as not to make a fuss. I was sitting by the wall at the little table near the writing desk; and Dostoevsky was now sitting at his table, now pacing the room, smoking all the time, frequently putting down his cigarette and starting a fresh one. He offered me a cigarette. I refused it. “Perhaps you refuse out of politeness?” he asked me. I said that I did not smoke, and did not like to see women smoking. A conversation by fits and starts began and Dostoevsky kept on turning from one subject to another. The longer it went on, the stranger he seemed to me: crushed, exhausted, ill. It also appeared strange to me that almost at once he declared that he was ill, that he had epilepsy. Of the work to be done he spoke vaguely. “We shall see how to do it; we shall try; we shall see if we can manage it.” It seemed to me that our working together would hardly come off. It even occurred to me that Dostoevsky doubted the possibility and convenience of that way of working, and was perhaps going to give it up. To help him out, I said: “Well, let us try; but if you find it inconvenient, tell me frankly then. Rest assured I shall not regard it as a grievance if our work does not come off.” Dostoevsky asked my name. I told him; but he forgot it immediately, and asked me again. The time was passing in conversation. Finally, Dostoevsky dictated to me from the Russky Vestnik and asked me to copy my shorthand into ordinary writing. He began dictating very rapidly; but I stopped him, and asked him to dictate with the speed of ordinary conversational speech. Then I began translating my shorthand into ordinary writing, and I did it rather quickly; but he hurried me all the while and was surprised that I copied out so slowly. I observed to him that, as I should be making the copy at home, not there, it ought not to matter to him how long the work took me. Looking through my copy he found that I had omitted a full stop and the hard sign in one word, and he remarked on it, sharply. Altogether he was strange; either somewhat rude, or evidently too frank and outspoken. He was evidently irritable, too, and could not collect his thoughts. Several times he would ask me something, and then he would pace the room, pace it for quite a long time, as though forgetting my presence; and I sat without stirring, afraid to disturb his train of thought. At last he said that he could not possibly dictate to me then; but if I could come to him that evening at eight o’clock he would then start on his novel. Although it was very inconvenient for me to come the second time, I promised to come, as I did not wish to put off the work. When I was leaving he said: “You know I was rather glad when Olkhin proposed sending me a girl shorthand writer, and not a man. You are probably surprised, perhaps it seems strange to you, you may ask why?” “Why then?” I asked. “For this reason that a man is sure to have a drinking bout, and you, I hope, will not.” The idea of my “having a drinking bout,” seemed to me so funny that I burst out laughing and said: “Most certainly I shall not, you may be sure.”

When I left Dostoevsky I was in a very depressed mood. I did not take to him, and he left a painful impression on me; it also seemed to me that we should not be able to work together and that my ideas of independence would come to nothing. This was the more painful to me because the previous night my mother and I had been so delighted at the starting of my new career. It was about two o’clock when I left Dostoevsky. It was too far away to go home, and I decided to call on my relations, the Snitkins, who lived in the Fonarny Lane, to have dinner there, and to return to Dostoevsky in the evening. Besides, as I was young, I wanted to boast to my relations that I was already beginning “to earn a living.” More than once they had let drop a hint that “it was easy for me with my mother behind me,” that “it was time I did something.” But when I began learning shorthand, they made fun of my “art,” and said that I was only wasting my time. My relations were intrigued by my new acquaintance and began asking me about Dostoevsky. The time passed quickly, and by eight o’clock I was at Alonkin House. It was very unpleasant for me to enter that house: there were so many people there in the street and near the gate, and all of them such rough people. The door was opened by Fedosya (she was quite pleased when, leaving in the afternoon, I gave her 20 copecks) and she went to announce me to Dostoevsky. I waited a few minutes in the dining-room, then entered the study and after exchanging greetings with Dostoevsky, I took the same seat as in the morning, at the little table by the wall. Dostoevsky proposed that I should sit at his table, assuring me that it would be more convenient for me to work there. I must say that I felt highly flattered by his suggestion that I should sit at the table at which had been written such an outstanding work as his recent novel, Crime and Punishment. We changed seats, and began talking. He again asked me my name, and my father’s name, and enquired if I was a relation of the gifted young writer Snitkin who had died recently. He made further inquiries about my family, of whom it consisted, where I had studied, what had made me learn shorthand, etc., etc., and why had my studies been so successful. In answer to his questions I had to tell him many particulars of which I shall speak later on in my story.

I told him that my father was a civil servant who had died in the spring. My mother was alive; my sister was married to G. Svatkovsky, the Censor; and my brother studied at the Petrovsky Agricultural College. I had finished my studies at the Grammar School with honours, and had been awarded a large silver medal. Then I had entered the Teachers’ Classes, only just founded by Prince Peter Oldenburgsky. There I had no luck. I took up natural science, but my heart was with literature, and during the hours when, according to the professor, I had to make chemical experiments in crystallising salts, I was so much absorbed in reading my favourite authors (and above all, by the novels of Dostoevsky, which fact, of course, I did not mention to him) that all my tubes and retorts, left unattended, burst, and I myself became the laughing-stock of my sweet colleagues. And when at the lecture of Professor Brandt I saw the dissection of a dead cat, I felt sick with disgust, and decided that a scientific career did not suit me. I left the Classes for good.

To Dostoevsky’s question ‘’what made me take up shorthand,“I answered that my family was well-off, and that there was no need for me to earn my living. But, like most of the younger generation, I set a great value on complete independence, which could only be achieved by those who have work to do which compels them to rely on their own efforts. Dostoevsky said, seeing that Olkhin had selected me from all his pupils, I must possess brilliant ability. I said it was not a question of brilliant ability, that my success in shorthand was due to a special reason. Dostoevsky wished to know what that reason was, and I had to tell him. The courses commenced in the beginning of April, 1866. I immediately started on them, but after five lessons I was in complete despair: shorthand appeared to me a regular abracadabra, which I could not grasp— so obscure and unintelligible it seemed. I wan...

Table of contents

• Cover Page
• Half-Title Page
• Title Page
• Copyright Page
• Title Page
• Table of Contents
• Prefatory Note
• PART I
• PART II
• APPENDIX