Dostoevsky
And again, on September 14, 1849:
“I had expected worse. And I know now that I have in me such reserves
of vitality that it would be difficult to exhaust.”[36]
I shall read almost the whole of his short letter dated December 22.
“To-day, December 22, we were led out to Semionovsky Square. There
the death warrant was read over to us all, we were given the cross to
kiss, swords were snapped above our heads, and our last toilet was
performed (white shirts). Then, three of us were placed against posts
for execution. I was the sixth; we were called up in threes, so I came
in the second group, and I had a few moments left to live. I thought of
you, brother, and of yours; at that last moment you alone were in my
thoughts, and then I realized how much I loved you, beloved brother!
I had time to kiss Plestcheyev and Dourov, who were beside me, and bid
them farewell. At last the retreat was sounded, those tied to the posts
were fetched back, and it was read out to us that His Imperial Majesty
was pleased to spare our lives.”[37]
In Dostoevsky’s novels we shall come across again and again more or
less direct allusions to the death sentence and to the condemned man’s
last hours. I cannot dwell on this for the moment.
Before starting out for Semipalatinsk, he was granted half an hour to
take leave of his brother Michael. Of the two, he was the calmer, a
friend relates, and said:
“In the settlement, dear brother, the convicts are not wild beasts,
just men, better men than I perhaps, more deserving, too, maybe. Yes,
we shall meet again, I hope: I am sure we shall see each other again.
Only do write to me and send me books. I shall soon let you know which
to send: surely reading is permitted there.” (This, says the narrator,
was a white lie to comfort his brother.) “As soon as I am released, I
shall begin to write. I have _lived_ during these last months, and in
the days before me, what shall I not see and live through? After all
that I shall not lack material for writing.”[38]
During the four years of Siberia which followed, Dostoevsky was not
permitted to write to his family. At any rate the existing volume
of correspondence contains no letters from this period, nor do Orest
Müller’s _Documents_ (_Materialen_), published in 1883, indicate any.
But since the issue of these _Documents_ numerous Dostoevsky letters
have been found and published; doubtless still more will yet be
discovered.
According to Müller, Dostoevsky left the penal settlement on March
2, 1854: according to official records, on January 23. These same
archives mention nineteen letters written by Fyodor Dostoevsky between
March 16, 1854 and September 11, 1856 to his brother, relatives, and
friends during the years of military service at Semipalatinsk, where
his sentence was completed. The French translation gives only twelve of
these letters, omitting (and why I cannot tell) that admirable letter
dated February 22, 1854, which, originally translated and printed
in Numbers 12 and 13 of _La Vogue_, 1886, now only with difficulty
accessible, was reprinted in the February issue of the _Nouvelle Revue
Française_, 1922.
Seeing this letter is not to be found in the published volume of
Dostoevsky’s correspondence, allow me to read some lengthy extracts
from it:[39]
(February 22, 1854.) “At last I can talk with you somewhat more
explicitly, and, I believe, in a more reasonable manner. But before
I write another line I _must_ ask you: tell me, for God’s sake, why
you have never written me a single syllable till now? Could I have
expected this from you? Believe me, in my lonely and isolated state,
I sometimes fell into utter despair, for I believed that you were no
longer alive; through whole nights I would brood upon what was to
become of your children, and I cursed my fate because I could not help
them....”
You see his keenest suffering is not in the consciousness of his own
abandonment, but in the realization of his powerlessness to help.
“How can I impart to you what is now in my mind--the things I thought,
the things I did, the convictions I acquired, the conclusions I came
to? I cannot even attempt the task. It is absolutely impossible. I
don’t like to leave a piece of work half done; to say only a part is
to say nothing. At any rate, you now have my detailed report in your
hands: read it, and get from it what you will. It is my duty to tell
you all, and so I will begin with my recollections. Do you remember how
we parted from each other, dear beloved fellow? You had scarcely left
me when we three, Dourov, Yastrembsky, and I, were led out to have the
irons put on. Precisely at midnight on that Christmas Eve (1849) did
chains touch me for the first time. They weigh about ten pounds, and
make walking extraordinarily difficult. Then we were sent into open
sledges, each with a gendarme; and so, in four sledges, the orderly
opening the procession, we left Petersburg. I was heavy-hearted, and
the many different impressions filled me with confused and uncertain
sensations. My heart beat with a peculiar flutter, and that numbed
its pain. Still, the fresh air was reviving in its effect, and,
since it is usual before all new experiences to be aware of a curious
vivacity and eagerness, so I was at the bottom quite tranquil. I looked
attentively at all the festively-lit houses of Petersburg, and said
good-bye to each. They drove us past your abode, and at Krayevsky’s the
windows were brilliantly lit. You had told me he was giving a Christmas
party and tree, and that your children were going to it, with Emilie
Fyodorovna; I did feel dreadfully sad as we passed that house. I took
leave, as it were, of the little ones. I felt so lonely for them, and
even years afterwards I often thought of them with tears in my eyes. We
were driven beyond Yaroslavl; after three or four stations we stopped,
in the first grey of morning, at Schlüsselburg, and went into an inn.
There we drank tea with as much avidity as if we had not touched
anything for a week. After the eight months’ captivity, sixty versts in
a sledge gave us appetites of which, even to-day, I think with pleasure.
“I was in a good temper. Dourov chattered incessantly, and Yastryembsky
expressed unwonted apprehensions for the future. We all laid ourselves
out to become better acquainted with our orderly. He was a good old
man, very friendly inclined towards us: a man who had seen a lot of
life; he had travelled all over Europe with dispatches. On the way he
showed us many kindnesses. His name was Kusma Prokofyevitch Prokofyev.
Among other things he let us have a covered sledge, which was very
welcome, for the frost was fearful.
“The second day was a holiday; the drivers, who were changed at the
various stations, wore cloaks of grey German cloth and bright red
belts; in the village streets there was not a soul to be seen. It was
a splendid winter day. They drove us through the remote parts of the
Petersburg, Novgorod, and Yaroslavl Governments. There were quite
insignificant little towns, at great distances from one another. But
as we were passing through on a holiday, there was always plenty to
eat and drink; we drove--drove terribly. We were warmly dressed, it is
true, but we had to sit for ten hours at a time in the sledges, halting
at only five or six stations; it was almost unendurable. I froze to
the marrow, and could scarcely thaw myself in the warm rooms at the
stations. Strange to say, the journey completely restored me to health.
Near Perm, we had a frost of 40 degrees during some of the nights. I
don’t recommend that to you. It was highly disagreeable.
“Mournful was the moment when we crossed the Ural. The horses and
sledges sank deep in the snow; a snowstorm was raging. We got out
of the sledge--it was night--and waited, standing, till they were
extricated. All about us whirled the snowstorm. We were standing on the
confines of Europe and Asia; before us lay Siberia and the mysterious
future--behind us, our whole past; it was very melancholy. Tears came
to my eyes. On the way, the peasants would stream out of all the
villages to see us; and although we were fettered, prices were trebled
to us at all the stations. Kusma Prokofyevitch took half our expenses
on himself, though we tried hard to prevent him; in this way each of
us, during the whole journey, spent only fifteen roubles.
“On January 12, 1850, we came to Tobolsk. After we had been paraded
before the authorities, and searched, in which proceeding all our money
was taken from us, myself, Dourov and Yastryembsky were taken into one
cell; the others, Spejechynov, etc., who had arrived before us, were
in another section, and during the whole time we hardly once saw each
other. I should like to tell you more of our six days’ stay in Tobolsk,
and of the impression it made upon me. But I haven’t room here. I will
only tell you that the great compassion and sympathy which was shown to
us there, made up to us, like a big piece of happiness, for all that
had gone before. The prisoners of former days[40] (and still more their
wives) cared for us as if they had been our kith and kin. Those noble
souls, tested by five-and-twenty years of suffering and self-sacrifice!
We saw them but seldom, for we were very rigidly guarded; still they
sent us clothes and provisions, they comforted and encouraged us. I had
brought far too few clothes, and had bitterly repented it; but they
sent me clothes. Finally we left Tobolsk, and reached Omsk in three
days.
“While I was in Tobolsk, I gathered information about my future
superiors. They told me that the Commandant was a very decent
fellow, but that the Major, Krivzov, was an uncommon brute, a petty
tyrant, a drunkard, a trickster--in short, the greatest horror that
can be imagined. From the very beginning, he called both Dourov
and me blockhead, and vowed to chastise us bodily at the first
transgression. He had already held his position for two years, and
done the most hideous and unsanctioned things; two years later he
was court-martialled for them. So God protected me from him! He used
to come to us mad drunk (I never once saw him sober), and would
seek out some inoffensive person and flog him on the pretext that
he--the prisoner--was drunk. Often he came at night and punished at
random--say, because such and such a one was sleeping on his left side
instead of his right, or because he talked or moaned in his sleep--in
fact, anything that occurred to his drunken mind. I should have had to
break out in the long run against such a man as that, and it was he who
wrote the monthly reports of us to Petersburg.
“I spent the whole four years behind dungeon walls, and only left the
prison when I was taken on ‘hard labour.’ The work was hard, though
not always; sometimes in bad weather, in rain, or in winter during
the unendurable frosts, my strength would forsake me. Once I had to
spend four hours at a piece of extra work, and in such frost that
the quicksilver froze; it was perhaps 40 degrees below zero. One of
my feet was frost-bitten. We all lived together in one barrack-room.
Imagine an old, crazy, wooden building, that should long ago have been
broken up as useless. In the summer it is unbearably hot, in the winter
unbearably cold. All the boards are rotten; on the ground filth lies an
inch thick; every instant one is in danger of slipping and coming down.
The small windows are so frozen over that even by day one can hardly
read. The ice on the panes is three inches thick. The ceilings drip,
there are draughts everywhere. We are packed like herrings in a barrel.
The stove is heated with six logs of wood, but the room is so cold that
the ice never thaws; the atmosphere is unbearable--and so through all
the winter long.
“In the same room, the prisoners wash their linen, and thus make the