THE POSITION OF CONFIDANTE to both sides, and of furthering a love affair which puts him in a state of despair, is no doubt possible, since the author has experienced it. I cannot tell whether she had been misrepresented, or whether we are more egotistical, but it is difficult to realize, and it certainly cannot be prolonged without becoming ridiculous. The slow development, the double dramatic action, shocks all our ordinary conceptions of good composition. As soon as we are interested in an intrigue, a second appears unexpectedly, quite distinct, but seemingly a copy of the first. I am quite willing to believe that the writer had in this separation of the two parts made rather a subtle artistic attempt borrowed from a process well known to the musical world. The principle drama awakes a far-away echo. It is the melody arrangement for the orchestra transposing the chorus heard on stage. Or, if preferred, it is as if the two novels together imitate the play of two mirrors when on opposite walls, bother reflecting the same object onto each other simultaneously. But all this is too subtle for the general public.
Moreover some of the actors are unreal. Dostoyevsky had drunk deep of Eugene Sue, and from reading certain passages in his Correspondence I imagine he was at that time still under the influence of that dramatist.
His Prince Valkovsky is the traitor in a melodrama, and is taken straight out of the Ambigu. On the rare occasions when taking his types from among the upper classes, he invariably went wrong. He knew nothing of the complex and discreet methods of hearts deadened by the social customs of the higher circles. Natasha’s lover, that giddy youth for whom she sacrifices everything, is not worth much. I am quite aware that Cupid must never be asked for his reasons, and that it is more philosophical to admire him independently of his victims, but the novel reader is not bound to be so philosophical; he expects to be made interested in the personality of the hero who is to be loved. He accepts him even if a scoundrel, but if stupid he cannot be abided. In France, at least, we would never allow the representation – though true, quite natural, and comforting – of an exquisite creature kneeling before an idiot. Being gallant, however, we might, if called upon, agree to it the other way – a genius adoring a fool of a woman! But that is as far as we can go.
Dostoyevsky had judged himself very severely. When referring to Humbled and Outraged in a press article, he wrote: “I acknowledge that my novel contains many dolls instead of people: that they are not characters artistically arranged, but mere perambulating talking machines.”
With these reservations, let us say that the master’s hand is to be recognized in both the female characters. Natasha is passionate love incarnate – but jealous. She speaks and acts like one of the victims in a Greek tragedy entirely at the beck and call of fatal Venus. Nelly, the delicious and fascinating little girl, is a sister to one Dickens’ delightful children. She ably personates the deep feelings of living religious ideas always present in the hearts of the Russian people when she says, “I shall go and beg in the street. There is nothing to be ashamed of in begging. I do not ask of any man in particular, but from everybody, and everybody is nobody. That is what an old beggar woman told me once. I am little, I have nothing, and I am going to ask everybody for something.”
On his return to St. Petersburg, and up to the year 1865, Dosotyevsky became absorbed in journalism. The poor metaphysician had an unfortunate liking for this enticing work; but it used up the best part of his talent, and of his life. During this time he started two papers in which to defend the ideas he thought he had. I defy any one to formulate his ideas in practical language. He had taken a standpoint about half-way between that of the Liberals and the Slavophiles, nearer the latter. Like them he had as a rallying cry the two famous verses of the poet Tucheff –
“One cannot understand Russia with one’s reason.
One can but have faith in Russia.”
It is no doubt a very worthy patriotic faith, but such a faith, replete with mystery, devoid of precise dogma, essentially escapes all explanation and argument. One believes or one does not, and that is the end of the matter. The great error of the Slavophiles is that for the last twenty-five years they had blackened mountains of pulp to find a reasonable justification for a sentiment. A stranger cannot enter into such debates, which presuppose a preliminary initiation and an acceptance of a definite faith. And he knows that he has to expect, whatever he may say or do. If he wishes to enter into the discussion he is informed that he is incapable of comprehension, and that holy linen can only be washed by the Levites in their own houses. If he keep aloof he is accused of being ignorant and contemptuous.
