II

To some it may perhaps seem out of place that in an article devoted to

the twenty-fifth anniversary of the writer's death, I call to mind his

mistakes and errors. The reproach is hardly just. A certain kind of

defect in a great man is at least as characteristic and important as

his qualities.

Dostoevsky was not a Bismarck. But is that so terrible that we must

lament it? Moreover, for writers of the type of Tolstoi and Dostoevsky,

their social and political ideas are without any value. They know well

that no one obeys them. Whatever they may say, history and political

life will go on in the same way, since it is not their books and

articles which guide events. And, probably, here is the explanation

of the amazing boldness of their opinions. If Tolstoi really imagined

that it would be enough for him to write an article demanding that

all 'soldiers, policemen, judges, ministers' and the rest, all those

guardians of the public peace, whom he detested--and, by the way, who

loves them?--should be dismissed, for all prison-doors to be flung

wide before the murderers and robbers--who can tell whether he would

have shown himself sufficiently firm and resolute in his opinions, to

take upon himself the responsibility for the effects of the measures

which he proposed? But he knows beyond all doubt that he will not be

obeyed, and therefore he calmly preaches anarchy. Dostoevsky's part as

a preacher was quite different; but it too was, so to speak, platonic.

Probably it came as a surprise even to himself, that he became the

prophet, not of 'ideal' politics, but of those most realistic tasks

which governments always set themselves in countries where a few men

direct the destinies of peoples. Listening to Dostoevsky, one may

imagine that he is discovering ideas which the government must take

for its guidance and set itself to realise. But you will soon convince

yourself that Dostoevsky did not discover one single original political

idea. Everything of the kind that he possessed he had borrowed without

examination from the Slavophiles, who in their turn appeared original

only to the extent to which they were able without outside assistance

to translate from the German and the French: _Russland, Russland

über alles._ (Even the rhythm of the verse is not affected by the

substitution of the one word.) But what is most important is, that

the Slavophiles with their Russo-German glorification of nationality,

and with them Dostoevsky who joined the chorus, have neither taught

nor educated one single man among the ruling classes. Our government

knew all that it needed to know by itself, without the Slavophiles

and without Dostoevsky. From time immemorial it had gone its way by

the road which the theorists so passionately praised: so that nothing

was left to them but to eulogise those in power and to defend the

policy of the Russian government against the public opinion which was

hostile to it. Autocracy, Orthodoxy, Nationality--all these were held

so firmly in Russia that in the 'seventies when Dostoevsky began to

preach they needed no support whatever. And surely every one knows that

power never seriously reckons upon the help of literature. Certainly it

requires that the Muses should pay tribute to it with the others, nobly

formulating its demands in the words: _Blessed be the union of the

sword and the lyre._ It used to happen that the Muses did not refuse

the request, sometimes sincerely, sometimes because, as Heine said, it

is particularly disagreeable to wear iron chains in Russia, on account

of the heavy frosts. In any case the Muses were only allowed to sing

the praises of the sword, but by no means to wield it. There are all

kinds of unions. And here again Dostoevsky, for all his independent

nature, still appeared in the rôle of a prophet of the Russian

government: that is, he divined the secret devices of the powers

that were, and in this connection then recalled all the 'high and

beautiful' words which he had managed to hoard up in the course of his

long wanderings. For instance, the government began to cast covetous

glances towards the East (at that time the Near East still); Dostoevsky

begins to argue that we must have Constantinople, and to prophesy that

Constantinople will soon be ours. His 'argument' is, of course, of a

purely 'moral character,' and, sure enough, he is a writer. Only from

Constantinople, he says, can we make avail the purely Russian ideal

of embracing all humanity. Of course our government, though indeed

we had no Bismarcks, perfectly well understood the value of moral

argument and of prophecy based upon them, and would have preferred a

few well-equipped divisions and improved guns. To realist politicians

one single soldier, armed not with a gun but with a blunderbuss, is

of more importance than the sublimest conception of moral philosophy.

But still they do not drive away the humble prophet, if the prophet

knows his place. Dostoevsky accepted the rôle, since it gave him still

the opportunity of displaying his refractory nature in the struggle

with Liberal literature. He sang paeans, made protests, uttered

absurdities--and worse than absurdities. For instance, he counselled

all the Slav peoples to unite under the aegis of Russia, assuring

them that only thus would full independence be guaranteed them, and

the right of shaping themselves by their own culture, and so on--and

that in the face of the millions of Polish Slavs living in Russia. Or

again, the _Moscow Gazette_ gives its opinion that it would be well

for the Crimean Tartars to emigrate to Turkey, since it would then be

possible for Russians to settle in the peninsula. Dostoevsky catches up

this original idea with enthusiasm. 'Indeed,' he says, 'on political

and state and similar considerations'--I do not know how it is with

other people, but when I hear such words as 'state' and 'political'

on Dostoevsky's lips, I cannot help smiling--'it is necessary to expel

the Tartars and to settle Russians on their lands.' When the _Moscow

Gazette_ projects such a measure, it is intelligible. But Dostoevsky!

Dostoevsky who called himself a Christian, who so passionately preaches

love to one's neighbour, self-abasement, self-renunciation, who taught

that Russia must 'serve the nations'--how could he be taken with an

idea so rapacious? And indeed almost all his political ideas have the

mark of rapacity upon them: to grab and grab, and still to grab....

As the occasion demands, he now expresses the hope that we may have

Germany's friendship, and again threatens her; now he argues that we

have need of England, and again he asserts that we could do without

her,--just like a leader-writer in a _bien-pensant_ provincial paper.

One thing alone makes itself felt among all these ludicrous and

eternally contradictory assertions,--Dostoevsky understands nothing,

absolutely nothing, about politics, and moreover, he has nothing at all

to do with politics. He is forced to go in tow of others who, compared

with him, are utter nonentities, and he goes. Even his ambition--and he

had a colossal ambition, an ambition unique in its kind, as befitted

a universal man--suffers not one whit: chiefly because men expected

prophecy from him, because the next title to that of a great writer is

that of a prophet, and because a ring of conviction and a loud voice

are the signs of the prophetic gift. Dostoevsky could speak aloud: he

could also speak with the tone of one who knows secrets, and of one

with authority. One learns much in the underworld. All these things

served him. Men took the poet-laureate of the existing order for the

inspirer of thoughts and the governor of Russia's remotest destinies.

It was enough for Dostoevsky. It was even necessary for Dostoevsky. He

knew of course that he was no prophet; but he knew that there had never

been one on earth, and that those who were prophets had no better right

to the title than he.