Report: The quality of pearls of Russian literature. II

AMONG THE PETRASHEVTS. CATASTROPHE. SIBERIA

A. P. MILYUKOV

Alexander Petrovich Milyukov (1817-1897) - writer, teacher, literary historian, critic. He was involved in the Petrashevite society, attended Durov's circle, was fond of the ideas of Fourierism, translated into Church Slavonic a chapter from "Parole d" un croyant" ("The Word of the Believer") by Lamennay. He became famous for the book "Essays on the History of Russian Poetry" (1848), in which Belinsky’s literary views were reflected. In connection with the second edition of this book (1858), N. A. Dobrolyubov wrote one of his remarkable articles: “On the degree of participation of the people in the development of Russian literature.” Together with V. Kostomarov, Miliukov worked on the publication. “History of Literature of the Ancient and New World” (1862). In 1874, his “Pearls of Russian Poetry” was published, a year later - “Echoes on Literary and Social Phenomena.” In 1890, his book “Literary Meetings and Acquaintances” appeared. and the memoirs about Dostoevsky printed here are taken.

A close acquaintance with Dostoevsky - Miliukov willingly emphasizes his friendly relations with him - should be attributed to 1848, when the name of Miliukov, thanks to “Essays on the History of Russian Poetry,” became more or less famous. He met with Durov with Palm, Pleshcheev, Filippov and Mombelli, who soon suffered cruelly for their beliefs. Miliukov himself was not even brought to trial.

Upon Dostoevsky's return from Siberia (at the very end of 1859), their former friendly relations were resumed and remained so almost until the writer left abroad (in April 1867). This is evidenced by the tone and content of Dostoevsky’s letters to Miliukov dated September 10, 1860, January 7, 1863, and especially a large detailed letter dated the tenth of July 1866: about the ordeal in connection with the novel “Crime and Punishment,” which was censored by the editors.” Russian Messenger" (see Letters, I, 299, 313, 442-444). And yet there was nothing more than close friendship between them in the sense, perhaps, only of everyday life, without real spiritual closeness. Dostoevsky sometimes even treated Miliukov somewhat ironically: in “Memoirs” of A. G. Dostoevskaya, F. M.’s words are quoted about one newspaper article: “due to the vulgar tone of the story, the matter could not have happened without A. P. Miliukov.” (Memoirs of Dostoevskaya, p. 78). During his period abroad (1867-1871), Dostoevsky did not write a single letter to Miliukov and spoke harshly about him several times because of Miliukov’s poor attitude towards his daughters. For example, on October 23, 1867, he wrote to A.G. Dostoevskaya: “I have already heard about Miliukov for a long time. What poor children and what a funny man! Funny and bad.” (Letters, II, 53-54; see also “Diary” of A. G. Dostoevskaya, M. 1923, p. 107).

All this must be kept in mind when assessing Miliukov’s memoirs from the point of view of their reliability. They should be treated especially critically where we are talking about Dostoevsky’s socio-political views during his stay in the Petrashevsky society. Consciously or unconsciously, Miliukov distorts the truth also because he wrote his memoirs more than forty years after the era he described; in his memory, during this long time, much of the distant past managed to fade and become distorted under the influence of the ferocious government and public reaction of the 1980s. s of the last century.

FEDOR MIKHAILOVICH DOSTOEVSKY

<...>I met F. M. Dostoevsky in the winter of 1848. It was a difficult time for the educated youth of that time. From the first days of the Parisian February Revolution, the most unexpected events replaced one another in Europe. The unprecedented reforms of Pius IX (1) responded with uprisings in Milan, Venice, and Naples; the explosion of free ideas in Germany sparked revolutions in Berlin and Vienna. It seemed that some kind of general rebirth of the entire European world was being prepared. The rotten foundations of the old reaction were falling away, and a new life was beginning throughout Europe. But at the same time, severe stagnation reigned in Russia (2); science and the press became more and more constrained, and the suppressed social life showed no activity. A lot of liberal works, both scientific and purely literary, were smuggled from abroad; in French and German newspapers, despite their castration, there were incessantly stimulating articles; Meanwhile, in our country, more than ever, scientific and literary activity was constrained, and the censorship became infected with the most acute fear of books. It is understandable how irritating all this had an effect on young people who, on the one hand, from books that came from abroad, became acquainted not only with liberal ideas, but also with the most extreme programs of socialism, and on the other hand, they saw in us the persecution of every little thing. a little bit of free thought; read the burning speeches delivered in the French Chamber, at the Frankfurt Congress (3), and at the same time understood that one could easily suffer for some unauthorized writing, even for a careless word. Almost every foreign post brought news of new rights granted, willy-nilly, to the people, and yet in Russian society there were only rumors about new restrictions and restrictions. Anyone who remembers that time knows how all this resonated in the minds of intelligent youth.

One day Pechkin came to me in the morning and, among other things, asked if I would like to meet the young aspiring poet, A. N. Pleshcheev. Before that, I had just read a small book of his poems, and I liked in it, on the one hand, the genuine feeling and simplicity, and on the other, the freshness and youthful ardor of thought. The small plays especially attracted our attention: “To the Poet” and “Forward” (4). And could it be possible, according to the mood of the youth at that time, not to be captivated by such stanzas as, for example:

Forward! without fear and doubt
A valiant feat, friends!
Dawn of Holy Redemption
I saw it in the sky.
Be brave! let's give each other hands
And together we will move forward,
And let under the banner of science
Our union is growing stronger and stronger!

Of course, I answered Pechkin that I was very glad to meet the young poet. And we soon got along. Pleshcheev began visiting me, and after a while he invited me to his place for a friendly evening, saying that I would find several good people with him whom he would like to introduce me to.

And indeed, at this evening I met people whose memory will forever remain dear to me. Among others there were: Porfiry Ivanovich Lamansky, Sergei Fedorovich Durov, guards officers - Nikolai Alexandrovich Mombelli and Alexander Ivanovich Palm - and the Dostoevsky brothers, Mikhail Mikhailovich and Fyodor Mikhailovich (5). All these young people were very nice to me. I especially got along with Dostoevsky and Mombelli. The latter lived then in the Moscow barracks, and he also had a circle of young people. There I met several more new faces and learned that in St. Petersburg there is a larger circle of M. V. Butashevich-Petrashevsky, where speeches of a political and social nature are read at fairly crowded gatherings. I don’t remember who exactly invited me to get acquainted with this house, but I rejected it not out of fear or indifference, but because Petrashevsky himself, whom I had met shortly before, did not seem very attractive to me due to the sharp paradoxical nature of his views and coldness towards him. everything Russian (6).

I reacted differently to the proposal to get closer to S.F. Durov’s small circle, which consisted, as I learned, of people who visited Petrashevsky, but did not completely agree with his opinions. It was a group of more moderate youth (7). Durov then lived with Palm and Alexei Dmitrievich Shchelkov on Gorokhovaya Street, behind the Semenovsky Bridge. In their small apartment, an organized circle of young military and civil servants had been gathering for some time, and since the owners were not rich people, and yet the guests came every week and usually stayed until three in the morning, everyone made a monthly contribution for tea and dinner and for payment a rented piano. They usually met on Fridays. I joined this circle in the middle of winter and visited it regularly until the end of the evenings after the arrest of Petrashevsky and those visiting him. Here, in addition to those whom I met at Pleshcheev and Mombelli, Nikolai Aleksandrovich Speshnev and Pavel Nikolaevich Filippov, both very educated and nice people, were constantly visiting.

I know about Petrashevsky’s meetings only from rumors. As for Durov’s circle, which I visited constantly and considered as if it were my friendly family, I can say positively that there were no purely revolutionary plans in it, and these gatherings, which had not only a written charter, but also no specific program, in which case it could not be called a secret society. In the circle, books with revolutionary and social content that were not allowed at that time were only received and passed on to each other, and conversations were mostly directed at issues that could not be discussed openly at that time. What occupied us most was the question of the liberation of the peasants, and at evenings we constantly discussed how and when it could be resolved. Others expressed the opinion that in view of the reaction caused in our country by the revolutions in Europe, the government is unlikely to begin to resolve this matter and we should rather expect a movement from below than from above. Others, on the contrary, said that our people would not follow in the footsteps of European revolutionaries and, not believing in the new Pugachevism, would patiently wait for the decision of their fate from the supreme power. In this sense, F. M. Dostoevsky spoke out with particular persistence. I remember how once, with his usual energy, he read Pushkin’s poem “Solitude” (8). Now I can hear the enthusiastic voice in which he read the final verse:

May I see, oh friends, a people not oppressed
And slavery fell due to the king’s mania,
And over the fatherland of enlightened freedom
Will the beautiful dawn finally rise?

When someone expressed doubt about the possibility of liberating the peasants through legal means, F. M. Dostoevsky sharply objected that he did not believe in any other way.

Another subject that was also often discussed in our circle was the censorship of that time. It is necessary to remember to what extremes censorship restrictions reached at that time, what stories circulated in society on this subject, and how writers then managed to carry out some bold thought under the veil of chaste modesty, in order to imagine in what sense the youth in our circle spoke out, passionately loved literature. This is all the more understandable because among us there were not only aspiring writers, but also those who had already attracted the attention of the public, and F. M. Dostoevsky’s novel “Poor People” promised great talent in the author. Of course, the question of abolishing censorship did not find a single opponent among us.

The talk about literature took place mostly in connection with some remarkable articles in the magazines of that time, and especially those that corresponded to the direction of the circle. But the conversation also turned to old writers, and harsh and sometimes rather one-sided and unfair opinions were expressed. Once, I remember, the conversation turned to Derzhavin, and someone said that he saw in him more of a pompous rhetorician and a groveling panegyrist than the great poet that his contemporaries and school pedants called him. At this, F. M. Dostoevsky jumped up as if stung and shouted:

How? But didn’t Derzhavin have poetic, inspired impulses? Isn't this high poetry?

And he recited the poem “To Rulers and Judges” from memory with such force, with such an enthusiastic feeling that he captivated everyone with his recitation and, without any comment, raised the singer Felitsa in the general opinion (9). Another time he read several poems by Pushkin and Victor Hugo, similar in basic thought or paintings, and at the same time masterfully proved how superior our poet is as an artist.

There were several ardent socialists in Durov's circle. Carried away by the humane utopias of European reformers, they saw in their teaching the beginning of a new religion, supposedly supposed to recreate humanity and organize society on new social principles. Everything that was new on this subject in French literature was constantly received, distributed and discussed at our meetings. Discussions about Robert Owen's New Lanark and Cabet's Icarium, and especially about Fourier's phalanstery and Proudhon's theory of progressive taxation, sometimes occupied a significant part of the evening. We all studied these socialists, but not everyone believed in the possibility of the practical implementation of their plans. Among the latter was F. M. Dostoevsky. He read social writers, but was critical of them. Agreeing that their teachings were based on a noble goal, he, however, considered them only honest dreamers. In particular, he insisted that all these theories do not matter to us, that we must look for sources for the development of Russian society not in the teachings of Western socialists, but in the life and centuries-old historical system of our people, where in the community, artel and mutual responsibility There have long been foundations that are stronger and more normal than all the dreams of Saint-Simon and his school. He said that life in the Icarian commune or phalanstery seemed to him more terrible and disgusting than any hard labor. Of course, our stubborn preachers of socialism did not agree with him.

We were no less interested in conversations about the legislative and administrative news of that time, and it is clear that harsh judgments were expressed, sometimes based on inaccurate rumors or not entirely reliable stories and anecdotes. And this at that time was natural among young people, on the one hand, outraged by the spectacle of the arbitrariness of our administration, the constraint of science and literature, and on the other hand, excited by the grandiose events that took place in Europe, giving rise to hopes for a better, freer and more active life. In this regard, F. M. Dostoevsky spoke out with no less harshness and passion than other members of our circle. I can’t now quote his speeches with accuracy, but I remember well that he always energetically spoke against measures that could somehow constrain the people, and was especially outraged by his abuses, from which the lower classes and student youth suffered. In his judgments the author of “Poor People” was constantly heard, warmly sympathizing with man in his most humiliated state. When, at the suggestion of one of the members of our circle, it was decided to write accusatory articles and read them at our evenings, F. M. Dostoevsky approved this idea and promised to work on his part, but, as far as I know, he did not have time to prepare anything for this kind. He disapproved of the very first article written by one of the officers, which told a then-famous anecdote in the city, and condemned both its content and the weakness of the literary form. For my part, at one of our evenings I read a chapter from “Parole d” un croyant” (“The Word of the Believer”) that I translated into Church Slavonic (French).) Lamennay, and F. M. Dostoevsky told me that the harsh biblical speech of this work came out more expressively in my translation than in the original. Of course, he meant only the very property of language, but his review was very pleasant for me. Unfortunately, I do not have the manuscript. In the last weeks of the existence of Durov’s circle, an idea arose to lithograph and disseminate as much as possible in this way articles that would be approved by general agreement, but this idea was not carried out, since soon most of our friends, namely everyone who attended Petrashevsky’s evenings, were arrested.

Shortly before the closure of the circle, one of our members went to Moscow and brought from there a copy of Belinsky’s famous letter to Gogol, written about his “Correspondence with Friends.” F. M. Dostoevsky read this letter at the evening and then, as he himself said, read it in various familiar houses and gave copies from it (10). Subsequently, this served as one of the main motives for his accusation and exile. This letter, which nowadays is unlikely to captivate anyone with its one-sided paradoxical nature, made a strong impression at that time. Many of our acquaintances had it on their lists together with a humorous article by A. Herzen, also brought from Moscow, in which both our capitals were wittily and maliciously compared (11). Probably, during the arrest of the Petrashevites, many copies of these works were taken and transferred to the Third Department. S. F. Durov often read his poems, and I remember with what pleasure we listened to his translation of Barbier’s famous play “Kiaya,” in which several poems were destroyed by censorship. In addition to conversations and reading, we also had music in the evenings. Our last evening concluded with one gifted pianist, Kashevsky, playing the overture from Rossini’s “William Tell” on the piano.

On the twenty-third of April 1849, returning home from a lecture, I found M. M. Dostoevsky at my place, who had been waiting for me for a long time. At first glance I noticed that he was very worried.

What's wrong with you? - I asked.

Don't you know it! - he said,

What's happened?

Brother Fedor was arrested.

What are you saying! When?

Last night... there was a search... he was taken away... the apartment was sealed...

What about others?

Petrashevsky, Speshnev were taken... I don’t know who else. I don’t know either today, they’ll take me away tomorrow.

Why do you think this?

Brother Andrey was arrested... he doesn’t know anything, he’s never been with us... he was taken By mistake instead of me.

We agreed to go right away to find out which other of our friends had been arrested, and to see each other again in the evening. First of all, I went to S. F. Durov’s apartment: it was locked and government seals were visible on the doors. I found the same thing with N.A. Mombelli, in the Moscow barracks, and on Vasilievsky Island - with P.N. Filippov. To my questions to the orderly and janitors they answered me: “The gentlemen were taken away at night.” The orderly Mombelli, who knew me, said this with tears in his eyes. In the evening I went to see M. M. Dostoevsky, and we exchanged the information we had collected. He visited other mutual friends of ours and learned that most of them were arrested last night. From what we learned, we could conclude that only those who attended Petrashevsky’s gatherings were detained, while those who belonged to one of Durov’s circles remained at large. It was clear that they did not yet know about this circle, and if Durov, Palm and Shchelkov were arrested, it was not because of their evenings, but only because of their acquaintance with Petrashevsky. M. M. Dostoevsky also visited him and, obviously, was not taken only because his brother, Andrei Mikhailovich, was mistakenly detained instead of him. Thus, the sword of Damocles hung over him, and for two whole weeks he waited every night for the inevitable guests. All this time we saw each other every day and exchanged news, although we could not find out anything significant. In addition to the rumors that circulated in the city and presented the Petrashevsky case with the usual additions in such cases, we only learned that about thirty people were arrested and all of them were first brought to the Third Department, and from there they were transported to the Peter and Paul Fortress and were sitting in solitary casemates. Petrashevsky’s circle, as it now turned out, had been under surveillance for a long time, and in the evenings a young man was introduced to it from the Ministry of Internal Affairs, who pretended to sympathize with the ideas of liberal youth, carefully attended gatherings, himself incited others to radical conversations and then wrote down everything, what was said at the evenings, and passed it on to where it should go. M. M. Dostoevsky told me that he had long seemed suspicious to him. It soon became known that a special investigative commission was appointed to investigate the Petrashevsky case, chaired by the commandant of the fortress, General Nabokov, from Prince Dolgorukov, L.V. Dubelt, Prince P.P. Gagarin and Ya.I. Rostovtsev.

Two weeks passed, and then one day early in the morning they sent me a message that M. M. Dostoevsky had been arrested the previous night (12). His wife and children were left without any means, since he did not serve anywhere, had no fortune, and lived solely on literary works for Otechestvennye Zapiski, where he wrote the monthly Internal Review and published short stories. With his arrest, the family found themselves in an extremely difficult situation, and only A. A. Kraevsky helped him survive this unfortunate time. I was not especially afraid for M. M. Dostoevsky, knowing his modesty and restraint; although he visited Petrashevsky, he did not sympathize with the majority of his guests and often expressed to me his lack of sympathy for the harshness that more extreme and careless people allowed themselves there. As far as I knew, no seriously dangerous statements could be made against him, and besides, recently he had almost completely fallen behind the circle. Therefore, I hoped that his arrest would not be long, and I was not mistaken.

At the end of May (1849) I rented a small summer apartment in Koltovskaya, not far from Krestovsky Island, and took M. M. Dostoevsky’s eldest son, who was then, if I’m not mistaken, seven years old, to stay with me. His mother visited him every week. One day, it seems in the middle of July, I was sitting in our kindergarten, and suddenly little Fedya runs towards me shouting: “Dad, dad has arrived!” In fact, that morning my friend was released, and he hurried to see his son and see me. It is clear with what joy we hugged after a two-month separation. In the evening we went to the islands, and he told me details about his arrest and detention in the dungeon, about the interrogations at the investigative commission and the testimony he gave. He also told me that it was precisely from the question points given to him that related to Fyodor Mikhailovich. We concluded that although he is accused only of liberal conversations, censure of some high-ranking officials and dissemination of prohibited works and the fatal letter of Belinsky, but if they want to give serious significance to the case, which was very likely at that time, then the outcome could be sad. True, several of those arrested in April were gradually released, but disappointing rumors circulated about others. They said that many could not escape exile.

The summer dragged on sadly. Some of my close friends were in the fortress, others lived in dachas, some in Pargolovo, some in Tsarskoye Selo. I occasionally saw I. I. Vvedensky and every week with M. M. Dostoevsky. At the end of August, I moved back to the city, and we began to visit each other even more often. The news about our friends was very uncertain: we only knew that they were healthy, but that it was unlikely that any of them would be released. The investigative commission finished its meetings, and it was necessary to wait for the final decision of the case. But this was still a long way off. Autumn passed, winter dragged on, and only before Christmas time was the fate of the condemned decided. To our extreme surprise and horror, everyone was sentenced to death by firing squad. But, as you know, this sentence was not carried out. On the day of execution, on the Semyonovsky parade ground, on the scaffold itself, where all the condemned were brought, a new decision was read to them, according to which they were given life, with the death penalty replaced by other punishments. According to this sentence, F. M. Dostoevsky was assigned to exile to hard labor for four years, with his enrollment, at the end of this period, as a private in one of the Siberian linear battalions. All this happened so quickly and unexpectedly that neither I nor his brother were on the Semenovsky parade ground and learned about the fate of our friends when everything was already over and they were again transported to the Peter and Paul Fortress, except for M.V. Petrashevsky, who was right with the scaffold was sent to Siberia.

The convicts were taken from the fortress to exile in batches of two and three people. If I’m not mistaken, on the third day after the execution on Semenovskaya Square, M. M. Dostoevsky came to me and said that his brother was being sent away that same evening and he was going to say goodbye to him. I also wanted to say goodbye to someone whom I would not have to see for a long time, and maybe never. We went to the fortress, straight to the parade ground major M, already known to us<айдел>Yu, through whom they hoped to obtain permission to meet. He was a highly benevolent person. He confirmed that Dostoevsky and Durov were indeed being sent to Omsk that evening, but it was impossible to see those leaving, except for close relatives, without the permission of the commandant. This upset me very much at first, but knowing the kind heart and condescension of General Nabokov, I decided to turn to him personally for permission to say goodbye to my friends. And I was not mistaken in my hope: the commandant allowed me to see F. M. Dostoevsky and Durov.

We were taken to some large room on the lower floor of the commandant's house. It had already been evening for a long time, and it was illuminated by one lamp. We waited for quite a long time, so that the fortress chimes managed to play a quarter twice on their multi-tone bells. But then the door opened, rifle butts rattled behind it, and F. M. Dostoevsky and S. F. Durov entered, accompanied by an officer. We shook each other's hands warmly. Despite their eight-month confinement in the dungeons, they hardly changed: the same serious calm on the face of one, the same friendly smile on the other. Both were already dressed in prisoner's travel clothes - short fur coats and felt boots. The serf officer modestly sat on a chair, not far from the entrance, and did not embarrass us at all. Fyodor Mikhailovich first of all expressed his joy to his brother that he had not suffered along with the others, and with warm concern asked him about the family, about the children, and went into the smallest details about their health and activities. He addressed this several times during our date. When asked about what life was like in the fortress, Dostoevsky and Durov spoke with particular warmth about the commandant, who constantly took care of them and eased their situation as best he could. Neither one nor the other expressed the slightest complaint about the severity of the trial or the severity of the sentence. The prospect of a life of hard labor did not frighten them, and, of course, at that time they did not foresee how it would affect their health.<...>

Looking at the farewell of the Dostoevsky brothers, anyone would have noticed that the one who suffers more is the one who remains free in St. Petersburg, and not the one who now has to go to Siberia for hard labor. There were tears in the eyes of the elder brother, his lips trembled, and Fyodor Mikhailovich was calm and consoled him.

Stop it, brother,” he said, “you know me, I’m not going to the coffin, you’re not seeing me off to the grave, and in hard labor it’s not animals, but people, maybe even better than me, maybe more worthy of me... Yes, we will see each other again, I hope so - I don’t even doubt that we will see each other... And you write, yes, when I get settled in, send me books, I’ll write what ones; after all, it will be possible to read... And when I get out of hard labor, I’ll start writing. During these months I have experienced a lot, I have experienced a lot within myself, and what I will see and experience ahead will be something to write about...<...>

Our date lasted more than half an hour, but it seemed very short to us, although we talked a lot, a lot. The bells on the fortress clock were ringing sadly when the parade major entered and said that it was time for us to part. We hugged and shook hands for the last time. I had no presentiment then that I would never meet Durov again, and that I would see F. M. Dostoevsky only eight years later. We thanked M<айдел>I am for his leniency, but he told us that our friends would be taken in an hour or even earlier. They were led through the courtyard with an officer and two guard soldiers. We hesitated for some time in the fortress, then went out and stopped at the gate from where the convicts were supposed to leave. The night was not cold and bright. On the fortress bell tower, the chimes struck nine o'clock when two Yamsk sleighs drove out, and on each sat a prisoner with a gendarme.

Farewell! - we shouted.

Goodbye! Goodbye! - they answered us.

Now I will give F. M. Dostoevsky’s own story about his arrest. He wrote it upon his return from exile in my daughter’s album in 1860. Here is the story, word for word, as written:

“On the twenty-second, or, better to say, the twenty-third of April (1849), I returned home at about four o’clock from Grigoriev’s, went to bed and immediately fell asleep. No more than an hour later, in my sleep, I noticed that some people had entered my room. then suspicious and unusual people. The saber clanked, accidentally hitting something. What kind of strangeness is that? With an effort, I open my eyes and hear a soft, sympathetic voice: “Get up!”

(I look: a quarterly or private police officer, with beautiful sideburns. But it was not he who spoke; it was a gentleman dressed in blue, with lieutenant colonel’s epaulettes, who spoke.

What's happened? - I asked, getting up from the bed.

By order...

I look: indeed, “by command.” There was a soldier standing in the doorway, also blue. It was his saber that rang...

"Ege? Yes, that's what it is!" - I thought. “Let me...,” I began.

Nothing, nothing! get dressed. We’ll wait, sir,” added the lieutenant colonel in an even more sympathetic voice.

While I was getting dressed, they demanded all the books and began to rummage; We didn’t find much, but we dug through everything. My papers and letters were carefully tied with string. The bailiff showed a lot of foresight in this: he reached into the stove and rummaged with my chibouk in the old ash. The gendarmerie non-commissioned officer, at his invitation, stood on a chair and climbed onto the stove, but fell off the ledge and fell loudly onto the chair, and then with the chair onto the floor. Then the perspicacious gentlemen were convinced that there was nothing on the stove.

On the table lay a five-alty note, old and bent. The bailiff looked at him carefully and finally nodded to the lieutenant colonel.

Isn't it fake? - I asked.

Hm... This, however, needs to be investigated... - muttered the bailiff and ended up adding him to the case.

We went out. We were escorted by the frightened hostess and her man, Ivan, although very frightened, he looked with a kind of dull solemnity, befitting the event, however, not a festive solemnity. There was a carriage at the entrance; The soldier, myself, the bailiff and the lieutenant colonel got into the carriage; we went to the Fontanka, to the Chain Bridge near the Summer Garden.

There was a lot of walking and people there. I met many people I knew. Everyone was sleepy and silent. Some gentleman, but in high rank, received... gay gentlemen continuously entered with various victims.

Here's to you, grandma, and St. George's Day! - someone said in my ear.

Little by little we surrounded the civil gentleman with a list in his hands. On the list, before the name of Mr. Antonelli, it was written in pencil: “agent for the found case.”

So this is Antonelli! - we thought.

We were placed in different corners awaiting the final decision on where to put whom. About seventeen of us gathered in the so-called white hall...

Leonty Vasilyevich entered... (Dubelt).

But here I interrupt my story. It's a long story. But I assure you that Leonty Vasilyevich was a pleasant person.

F. Dostoevsky

<...>How painful it was<...>one thought that he would have to leave literary pursuits for a long time is evident from Dostoevsky’s letter to his brother from the Peter and Paul Fortress, written on December 22, upon his return from the scaffold. Speaking about the upcoming hard labor, he writes: “It’s better to spend fifteen years in a dungeon with a pen in hand,” and at the same time adds: “That head that created, lived the highest life of art, that got used to the sublime needs of the spirit, that head has already been cut off from my shoulders."

Durov could not stand the severity of prison life.

F. M. Dostoevsky, thanks to his energy and the faith in a better fate that never left him, more happily endured the ordeal of hard labor, although it also affected his health. If before his exile he had, as they say, fits of epilepsy, then, without a doubt, they were weak and rare. At least, until his return from Siberia, I did not suspect this; but when he arrived in St. Petersburg, his illness was no longer a secret to any of the people close to him. He once said that Durov’s health had especially deteriorated since the fall when they were sent to dismantle an old barge on the river, and some of the prisoners stood knee-deep in water. Perhaps this had an effect on his health and accelerated the development of the disease to the extent to which it was later discovered.

At first, after his pardon, Dostoevsky was allowed to live only in the provinces, and he settled in Tver to be closer to his relatives, some of whom lived in St. Petersburg, and others in Moscow. His brother received a letter from him and immediately went to see him. At this time, Fyodor Mikhailovich was already a family man: he married in Siberia, the widow Marya Dmitrievna Isaeva, who died of consumption, if I’m not mistaken, in 1863. He had no children from this marriage, but his stepson remained in his care. Dostoevsky lived in Tver for several months. He was preparing to resume his literary activity, interrupted by hard labor, and read a lot. We sent him magazines and books. By the way, at his request, I sent him the “Psalter” in Slavic, the “Koran” in the French translation of Kazimirsky and “Les romans de Voltaire” (Voltaire’s Novels (French).). He later said that he was planning some kind of philosophical work, but after careful discussion he abandoned this idea.

At this time, M. M. Dostoevsky had his own tobacco factory, and business was not going badly: his cigarettes with surprises were sold all over Russia. But factory work did not distract him from literature. By the way, at my request, he translated Victor Hugo's novel "Le dernier jour d" un condamne" ("The Last Day of a Man Condemned to Death" (French).) for the magazine "Svetoch", which I then edited together with the publisher, D. I. Kalinovsky. One day Mikhail Mikhailovich came to me in the morning with the good news that his brother was allowed to live in St. Petersburg and he should arrive that same day. We hurried to the Nikolaevskaya railway station, and there I finally hugged our exile after almost ten years of separation. We spent the evening together. Fyodor Mikhailovich, it seemed to me, had not changed physically: he even seemed to look more cheerful than before and had not lost any of his usual energy. I don’t remember which of our mutual acquaintances was at this evening, but I remember that on this first date we only exchanged news and impressions, reminisced about old years and our mutual friends. After that we saw each other almost every week. Our conversations in our new small circle of friends were in many ways no longer similar to those that took place in Durov’s society. And could it have been otherwise? Western Europe and Russia seemed to have changed roles in these ten years: there the humane utopias that had previously captivated us scattered into dust, and reaction triumphed in everything, but here many things that we dreamed of began to come true, and reforms were being prepared that would renew Russian life and give rise to new ones. hope. It is clear that in our conversations there was no longer the same pessimism.

Little by little, Fyodor Mikhailovich began to tell details about his life in Siberia and the morals of those outcasts with whom he had to live for four years in a convict prison. Most of these stories were later included in his “Notes from the House of the Dead.” This work was published under rather favorable circumstances: the spirit of tolerance was already in the censorship at that time, and works appeared in literature that had recently been unthinkable in print. Although the news of a book devoted exclusively to the life of convicts, the gloomy outline of all these stories about terrible villains, and finally the fact that the author himself was a newly returned political criminal, somewhat confused the censorship; but this, however, did not force Dostoevsky to deviate in any way from the truth. And “Notes from the House of the Dead” made a stunning impression: in the author they were seen as a new Dante, who descended into hell, all the more terrible because it existed not in the poet’s imagination, but in reality (13). According to the conditions of the censorship of that time, Fyodor Mikhailovich was only forced to remove from his work the episode about the exiled Poles and political prisoners. He conveyed to us many interesting details on this subject. In addition, I remember another story of his, which was also not included in the Notes, probably for the same censorship reasons, since it touched on the sensitive issue of the abuses of serfdom at that time. I remember now that once at an evening with my brother, remembering his life in prison, Dostoevsky told this episode with such terrible truth and energy that one never forgets. It was necessary to hear the expressive voice of the narrator, to see his lively facial expressions in order to understand what impression he made on us. I will try to convey this story as best I remember and can.

“In our barracks,” said Fyodor Mikhailovich, “there was one young prisoner, meek, silent and uncommunicative. I didn’t get along with him for a long time, I didn’t know how long he had been in hard labor and why he ended up in a special category, where those convicted of the most grave crimes. His behavior was in good standing with his cautious superiors, and the prisoners themselves loved him for his meekness and helpfulness. Little by little we became close to him, and one day, upon returning from work, he told me the story of his exile. He was a serf. from the provinces near Moscow and that’s how he got to Siberia.

Our village, Fyodor Mikhailovich,” he said, “is not small and prosperous. Our master was a widower, not old yet, not that he was very angry, but stupid and dissolute about the female sex. We didn't like him. Well, I decided to get married: I needed a mistress, and I fell in love with one girl. We got along with her, the master's permission was granted, and we were married. And as soon as the bride and I left the crown, yes, on our way home, we reached the manor’s estate, about six or seven servants ran out, grabbed my young wife by the arms and into the manor’s yard and dragged her. I rushed after her, but the little people attacked me; I scream, I fight, and they tie my hands with sashes. It was impossible to escape. Well, they dragged my wife away, and they dragged me to our hut, and threw me, tied up as is, onto a bench and put two guards there. I ran about all night, and late in the morning they brought the young woman and untied me. I got up, and the woman fell to the table - crying, sad. “What, I say, should I kill myself: I didn’t lose myself!” And from that very day I thought about how I could thank the master for his affection towards his wife. I sharpened this ax in the barn, so that it could even cut bread, and I adapted it to carry it so that it wouldn’t be seen. Maybe some men, seeing how I was staggering around the estate, thought that I was planning something, but who cares: we really didn’t like the master. Only for a long time I was not able to waylay him: sometimes he would show off with the guests, sometimes the lackeys would be around him... everything was inconvenient. And it’s like a stone on my heart that I can’t repay him for the outrage: most of all it was bitter for me to watch my wife grieve. Well, one evening I was walking behind the master’s garden, and I looked and the gentleman was walking along the path alone, not noticing me. The garden fence was low, lattice, and made of balusters. I let the master walk a little, and in a quiet manner he waved through the fence. I took the ax out of the path onto the grass so that he wouldn’t be heard ahead of time, and, stealthily, I followed him along the grass. I came very close and took the ax in both hands. But I wanted the master to see who came to him for blood, so I coughed on purpose. He turned around, recognized me, and I jumped towards him and hit him right on the head with an ax... fuck! Here, they say, for your love... So it was his brains that began to bleed... he fell and did not sigh. And I went to the office and showed up that so and so, they say. Well, they took me, spanked me, and decided to come here for twelve years.

But you are in a special category, without a term?

And this, Fyodor Mikhailovich, on another matter, I was sent to indefinite penal servitude,

For what reason?

I decided on the captain.

Which captain?

Stage caretaker. Apparently, it was destined for him. I went to the party, the next summer after I had finished with the master. It happened in the Perm province. A large party was hijacked. The day turned out to be very hot, and the transition from stage to stage was great. We were crushed in the sunshine, we were all tired to death: the soldiers on guard barely moved their legs, and we were unaccustomed to being in chains with a terrible passion. Not all of the people were strong, some were almost old people. Others didn’t have a crust of bread in their mouths all day: the march was so bad that they didn’t give us a single piece of alms on the way, we only drank water twice. How we got there, God knows. Well, we entered the prison yard, and some of them died. I can’t say I was exhausted, but I was just really hungry. At this time, when the party arrives, the prisoners are given lunch; and then we look - there is no order yet. And the prisoners began to say: well, they won’t feed us, we have no urine, we’re exhausted, some are sitting, some are lying down, but they won’t give us a piece. It seemed a shame to me: I myself am hungry, and I feel even more sorry for the weak old people. “Will they give you lunch soon,” we ask the transport soldiers? - “Wait, they say, the order has not yet come from the authorities.” Well, think about it, Fyodor Mikhailovich, what it was like to hear it: fair, or what? A clerk is walking through the yard, and I say to him: why aren’t they telling us to have dinner? “Wait,” he says, “you won’t die.” - “But of course,” I say, “you see, people are exhausted, tea, you know, what a transition it was in this heat, feed them quickly.” - “It’s impossible,” he says, the captain has guests, he’s having breakfast, so he’ll get up from the table and give an order.” - “Will it happen soon?” - “And he eats his fill, picks his teeth, and that’s how it comes out.” - “What kind of order is this, I say: he’s cooling off, and we’re dying of hunger!” “Why are you,” says the clerk, “why are you shouting?” - “I’m not shouting, but I’m saying that we have some people who are weak and can barely move their legs.” - “Yes, he says, you are rowdy and rebelling against others; I’ll go and tell the captain.” - “I’m not making a fuss, I say, but report to the captain as you wish.” Here, hearing our conversation, some of the prisoners also began to grumble, and someone cursed the authorities. The clerk got angry. “You,” he tells me, “are a rebel; the captain can handle you.” And went. Evil has taken such a toll on me that I can’t even say; I sensed that this would not happen without sin. At that time I had a folding knife, and near Nizhny I traded it with a prisoner for a shirt. And I don’t remember now how I took it out of my bosom and put it in my sleeve. We look, an officer comes out of the barracks, his face is so red, his eyes seem to want to pop out, he must have been drinking. And the clerk is behind him. “Where is the rebel?” the captain shouted straight to me. “Are you rebelling? Huh?” “I say, I’m not rebelling, your honor, but I’m only sad about people, for this reason neither God nor the king has shown me to starve.” How he growls: “Oh, you are so and so! I will show you how to deal with robbers. Call the soldiers!” And I’m adjusting this knife in my sleeve, and I’m wearing myself out. “I’ll teach you,” he says! - “There is no point, your honor, in teaching a scientist; I understand myself even without science.” I told him just to spite him so that he would get even more angry and come closer to me... he won’t stand it, I think. Well, he couldn’t stand it: he clenched his fists towards me, and I just leaned forward and, with a knife, pierced his stomach from below, almost right down to his throat. He fell down like a log. What to do? The untruth of him towards the prisoners made me very angry. It was for this very captain that I, Fyodor Mikhailovich, ended up in a special category, among the eternal.”

All this, according to Dostoevsky, the prisoner related with such simplicity and calmness, as if he were talking about some rotten tree cut down in the forest. He did not fanfare about his crime, did not justify himself in it, but conveyed it as if it were some ordinary incident. Meanwhile, he was one of the most peaceful prisoners in the entire prison. In Notes from the House of the Dead there is an episode somewhat similar to this about the murder of a transport major; but I heard the story I quoted from Fyodor Mikhailovich personally and I convey, if not exactly in his words, then, in any case, close, because it struck me greatly then and remained vividly in my memory. Maybe one of our mutual friends remembers him.<...>Remembering the criminals he had seen in the convict prison, he did not treat them with the disgust and contempt of a man who by education stood immeasurably higher than them, but tried to find some human trait in the most hardened heart. On the other hand, he never complained about his own fate, neither about the severity of the trial and sentence, nor about the ruined blooming years of his youth. True, I did not hear any sharp complaints from other Petrashevites who returned from hard labor, but with them this seemed to stem from the inherent property of the Russian person not to remember evil; for Dostoevsky it was also combined, as it were, with a feeling of gratitude to fate, which gave him the opportunity in exile not only to get to know the Russian people well, but at the same time to better understand himself. He spoke reluctantly about the long hardships in prison and only recalled with bitterness his alienation from literature, but even here he added that by reading the Bible alone, as necessary, he could understand the meaning of Christianity more clearly and deeply.<...>

Notes:

A memoir essay by A.P. Milyukov, published in “Russian Antiquity” for 1881 (N 3 and 5), is printed with abbreviations here and in the section “To the First Summit” (see pp. 325-329 of this volume) based on the book : A.P. Milyukov, Literary meetings and acquaintances, St. Petersburg. 1890, pp. 169-203, 207-222.

1 Page 180. Pope Pius IX began his reign in the spirit of liberalism: he gave amnesty to political exiles and prisoners, established commissions to develop new reforms, allowed industrial associations, scientific congresses, schools for workers, etc. About the attitude of the Italians to these reforms of Pius IX and Herzen tells in great detail in “Letters from France and Italy” about the further history of Italy, when the pope’s hesitations were revealed, and therefore revolutionary outbreaks began in various cities of the state. (Herzen, V, 90-138).

2 Page 180. In 1848, the reaction in Russia reached its apogee. “A lightning rod against the possibility of a repetition of Western European events in Russia,” according to the government of Nicholas I, was a further strengthening of “vigilance,” and on April 12, 1848, a permanent “committee” was established under the chairmanship of D. P. Buturlin for “higher supervision of journalism and observers.” institutions over it."

3 Page 181. “Frankfurt Congress” - the so-called “Preliminary Parliament”, a congress of representatives of the liberal bourgeoisie and intelligentsia, brought to life by the revolution of 1848 (meeted on March 31). The congress decided to convene a parliament elected in all German states by universal suffrage.

4 Page 182. The first collection of poems by A. N. Pleshcheev was published in 1846. There they published “Forward, without fear and doubt...” and “To the Poet” - with an epigraph from O. Barbier: “Le poete doit etre un protestant sublime // Du droit et de l"humanite" ("The poet must be a sublime rebel in the name of truth and humanity").

5 Page 182. Pleshcheev met Dostoevsky, in all likelihood, in 1846 in the circle of the Beketovs or the Maykovs, and soon a close friendship was established between them. At this time, Dostoevsky created such “humane-sentimental” works as “Weak Heart” and “White Nights,” dedicated to Pleshcheev. When separate circles began to emerge from the Petrashevite society, both of them, together with Durov, formed their own special circle, more active and more revolutionary-minded. It was with them that Dostoevsky stood next to them on the Semenovsky parade ground during the death penalty ceremony, and he managed to hug them goodbye. Dostoevsky was exiled to Omsk, and Pleshcheev was exiled as a private to the Orenburg garrison. In 1856, when both were close to complete liberation, a very active correspondence began between them, which continued until the mid-60s (for Pleshcheev’s letters, see collection. Dostoevsky,II; Dostoevsky's letters have obviously disappeared). Later (from 1865) there appeared to be a cooling, most likely due to the fact that they belonged to different political camps (Pleshcheev was associated with the “Notes of the Fatherland” by Nekrasov and Saltykov); however, the old tone of personal intimacy remains forever in their casual correspondence (for example, Dostoevsky's letters to Pleshcheev in 1875 in connection with The Teenager).

6 Page 183. Miliukov’s assertion that Petrashevsky was cold towards everything Russian is incorrect. Already here Miliukov’s deviation from the truth begins to show itself, according to his later views in the era of reaction in the 80s.

7 Page 183. This is not true. It was Durov’s circle that was the most left-wing among the Petrashevites; it was he who began to develop its activities in accordance with the belief in the inevitability of an uprising. Miliukov is also wrong when he makes Dostoevsky, already in the 40s, a complete Slavophile; on the contrary, as Palm depicts Dostoevsky in the image of Alexei Slobodin, he agreed that the liberation of the peasants could occur through an uprising; this is confirmed by other data (Dostoevsky among the Petrashevites).

8 Page 184. In the 1826 edition of Pushkin’s poems, the first thirty-four verses from the poem “Village” were printed under this title. With the final couplet “Shall I see, O friends...” (under the same title “Solitude”), the poem was distributed in copies, and only in 1870 was it first published in Russia under the real title “Village”.

9 Page 185. This is what Derzhavin’s contemporaries called him based on his famous “Ode to Felitsa” - a message to Catherine II.

10 Page 187. Belinsky’s letter to Gogol was transmitted to Dostoevsky in March 1849 by Pleshcheev. Dostoevsky, as he himself reported in the testimony of the investigative commission, immediately read it to Durov and Palma and promised to read it from Petrashevsky (Belchikov, 136). This reading took place on April 15th. Akhsharumov, Timkovsky, Yastrzhembsky and Filippov testified that Dostoevsky gave them the manuscript and Filippov made a copy of it (ibid., 101).

11 Page 187. This refers to Herzen’s article “Moscow and St. Petersburg” (1842), polemically directed against the Slavophiles.

13 Page 196. This refers to statements about “Notes from the House of the Dead” by Turgenev and Herzen. At the end of December 1861, Turgenev wrote to Dostoevsky: “I am very grateful to you for sending two issues of Vremya, which I read with great pleasure. Especially your Notes from the House of the Dead.” Picture baths simply Dantean" (I. S. Turgenev, Letters, vol. IV, ed. Academy of Sciences of the USSR, M. -L. 1962, p. 320). Herzen wrote in the article “The New Phase in Russian Literature” that the era of awakening after death Nicholas I "left us one terrible book, a kind of carmen horrendum<ужасающую песнь>, which will always flaunt over the exit from the dark reign of Nicholas, like Dante’s inscription over the entrance to hell: this is Dostoevsky’s “House of the Dead,” a terrible story, the author of which, probably, himself did not suspect that, drawing with his chained hand the images of his fellow convicts , he created frescoes in the spirit of Buonarroti from a description of the customs of a Siberian prison" (Herzen, XVIII, 219).

Years of being in hard labor inflicted severe moral trauma on F. M. Dostoevsky, from which he could not recover throughout his life. At the same time, the impressions the writer made from the “house of the dead” confronted him with new, important ideological problems. The question of the people’s worldview, their ethical ideals and ideas formed the most important link in the chain of Dostoevsky’s thoughts in the late 50s and early 60s. Interest in the ethical quest of the people, in the views and even prejudices of the people and the life experience of the writer, who encountered the most oppressed, disadvantaged members of society, revealed to him the importance of folklore as an arsenal of artistic means, developed over centuries by nameless thinkers and poets who expressed the mentality of the masses doomed to silence. Among the numerous publications of folklore materials, the appearance of which reflected the outbreak of folklore scientific interests in the early 60s, collections of legends occupied a special place.

The enormous reader interest that was aroused by Afanasyev’s collection of legends, published in early 1860 (it was first published in 1859 in London), the prohibition of this publication, which caused a great public scandal, the appearance, following Afanasyev’s collection, in the series “Monuments of Ancient Russian literature" (ed. by Kushelev-Bezborodko), new publications of legends and apocrypha, serious critical analyzes of the materials of these publications, especially the articles of A. N. Pypin in Sovremennik (Nos. 3 and 11 for 1860), should were to attract Dostoevsky's attention.

The statements of scientists (Afanasyev, Kostomarov, Pypin, Buslaev), who published legends, that works of this genre directly reflect the moral ideals and historical experience of the people, even if sometimes fantastically reinterpreted, were close to Dostoevsky. After all, he put ecstatic appeals into the mouth of his ideal hero: “...open the Russian “Light” to the Russian man, let him find this gold, this treasure hidden from him in the earth!” (VI, 618).

In the 60s, legendary motifs, images, and situations penetrated Dostoevsky’s work. Paying attention to this circumstance and attaching very important importance to it, we would like to emphasize that the creative impulses coming from this source and the figurative and ideological associations generated by it were included in the firmly established forms of the writer’s realistic artistic system and were subjected to powerful deformation in its bosom. The ethical and psychological problems of folk legend were especially important for Dostoevsky. Although Christ and the saints often appeared as heroes in the plots of legends, their ethical essence did not coincide with orthodox church morality, just as the content of the apocryphal legend did not coincide with the canonical texts of the Holy Scriptures.

A peculiar and complex relationship with the legend is palpable in the pathetic speech of the hero of the novel “Crime and Punishment” Marmeladov about the forgiveness that awaits the “drunk” on the day of the Last Judgment. Marmeladov’s conviction that it is in relation to the sin of drunkenness, a shameful and dirty sin, that all the mercy of Christ will be manifested, should be compared with the legend of the Hawk Moth, which by the time Dostoevsky was working on this novel had already been published three times. In No. 6 of “Russian Conversation” for 1859, this legend story was published by N. Ya. Aristov, accompanied by an article by K. S. Aksakov. This publication in a magazine that was in Dostoevsky’s field of view could have additionally drawn the writer’s attention to the commentary of Afanasyev, who, having placed the story about the hawk moth in his collection of legends, referred to “Russian Conversation” in the notes to it. Having called this work a “story,” Afanasyev at the same time emphasized that he considers it as a legend existing among the people. “This legend lives on in the mouths of the people. One storyteller conveyed to us the debate between Hawk Moth...,” he writes. This legend was also published in 1860 (based on a manuscript from Buslaev’s collection, entitled “The Lay of the Hawkmoth, How to Enter Paradise”) as part of the collection “Monuments of Ancient Russian Literature” (issue II, pp. 477-478). The story of the hawk moth is one of the satirical works of the 17th century, closely related to folklore in its content and poetics. It can be attributed to those partly parodic and clownish, partly accusatory and dramatic creations of literature of this era, which reflected the reflections and disappointments of the average, “ordinary” person, who experienced the difficulties of the transitional time and interpreted them in his own way. The story of Hawk Moth was directed against the cult of saints, against official church morality.

At the same time - which, obviously, could be very important for Dostoevsky - the spirit of the Gospel and the Christian preaching of love for one's neighbor were contrasted in it with ascetic church preaching. Based on this feature of the story, K. S. Aksakov argued that it does not depict a drunkard, but “a pure and highly moral man... he has no vices and sins... that prevent him from entering heaven. But he is a hawk moth; with all his moral virtues, with all his moral purity, he had fun, feasted and drank wine all the days of his life,” “in this story an anti-ascetic view is expressed.” K. S. Aksakov exclaimed pathetically, conveying in his own words the moral concepts of the people, contained, in his opinion, in the story: “Let a man feast and glorify God, let him feast and love his brothers, let him feast and keep purity, let him feast— and (most importantly) does not worship idols, that is, does not slave to anything.” Aksakov reinterpreted the meaning of the story too freely. The satirical-parody style of the work was ignored by him, and the story was presented as a pathetic apotheosis of virtue rejoicing in the beauty of the world, moreover, an apotheosis not devoid of features of political didactics. Dostoevsky, judging by the corresponding episode of the novel “Crime and Punishment,” turned out to be closer to the image of the true hero of the story, although this was not without divergences and controversy. The similarity between Dostoevsky’s hero and the folk-legendary figure of Hawkmoth is captured primarily in their “social well-being” and in the style of speech associated with this well-being. K. Aksakov saw in the hero of the story - the hawk moth who thirsts for eternal bliss and achieves it - a righteous man who pleases God and teaches the saints on his behalf. In accordance with this, he believed that the “dispute” between the hawk moth and the saints constitutes the main content of the story. Fun is not a sin, according to the people, and the story about the hawk moth defends this thesis, says K. Aksakov. Dostoevsky portrays a drunkard, and in this his hero is close to the hawk moth of the story, the legend, who in one of the text versions said to his “opponents”: “Holy fathers, you don’t know how to talk to a hawk moth, let alone a sober one.” Like the hero of the 18th century story, Marmeladov is “insolvent” in his “earthly” personal life. He does not think about earthly well-being and prefers wine to all blessings - honor, money, love. Interpreting the meaning of the image of the hawk moth, K. Aksakov did not notice that the hero of the story reproaches the saints for their adherence to earthly interests and considers his main advantage over them to be “withdrawal” from the world with its practical goals into “disinterested” hawkmoth. This statement of the hero, like his entire argument, is parodic. The combination of buffoonery and pathos, the paradoxical defense of hawk-moonism with the help of traditional religious theses and views reveal the characteristics of the hero. This is typical of 17th century literature. a hero is a person who knows how to stand up for himself, desperate and daring. His courage is generated not at all by the consciousness of his sinlessness, but by the confidence in universal sinfulness - a confidence formed under the influence of painful experience. Being “the little one of this world,” he does not deny his depravity, but believes that, having achieved nothing in life and being at the lowest level of society, for this simple reason he has less sins. He was not entrusted with the high mission of being the keeper of the keys of heaven, but he did not betray his teacher, like the Apostle Peter; he could not, like Kings David and Solomon, wage wars and build temples, but he also could not send his subjects to death and take their wives as concubines. The pathetic element that makes its way through the parodic and funny style of Hawkmoth's speeches lies in this affirmation of the dignity of the common man and in his hope that he, despised in life, may turn out to be more pleasing to God than the famous and powerful rulers - kings and priests .

This complex fracture in the psychological characteristics of the hawk moth could be understood and close to Dostoevsky more than any of the writers of his time. As if polemicizing (and perhaps actually polemicizing) with K. Aksakov, he puts into the mouth of his “hawk moth” Marmeladov the words that in drunkenness he was not looking for joy and fun: “... I don’t thirst for fun, but sorrow!... Do you think, seller, that this half-damask of yours is a delight for me? I looked for sorrow, sorrow at its bottom, sorrow and tears, and tasted it, and became timid...” (V, 26).

“Agreeing” with the legendary hawk moth that it is the highest court - the court of Christ - that will acquit him, Dostoevsky’s hero believes that it is not confidence in his own rightness, but the fullness of consciousness of his sinfulness that will save “fallen” people like him. Here, as is often the case with Dostoevsky, he sharply diverges from the traditional ethical decision established in folklore. As if repeating the motif of variants of the legend that depicted the bewilderment of John, who turned to Christ with the question of what to do with Hawkmoth, or the “holy fathers” who saw him in paradise with surprise, Marmeladov says: “And the wise will say, the wise will say: “Lord! Why do you accept these?” And he will say: “That is why I accept them, the wise, because I accept them, the wise, because not one of these himself considered himself worthy of this...” (V, 27).

So, starting from the texts of the story published by A. Afanasyev, N. Aristov and K. Aksakov, as well as N. Kostomarov (in the second issue of “Monuments of Ancient Russian Literature”), and perhaps also from the legend he heard in oral performance, Dostoevsky creates his own version, told through the lips of the hero. Here the motive of the debate is almost reduced to nothing, it is replaced by a brief mention of the objections of the “wise” and “reasonable”, and it is no longer the hawk moth himself who responds to the opponents, but - in accordance with the idea of ​​humility as the main virtue of a sinner - his high patron. It is curious and significant that Dostoevsky creates a picture of the telling of a legend that explains some aspects of the content of this legend. Marmeladov tells it in a tavern, in the company of listeners who are accustomed to looking at him as a funny man and who perceive his speech in a comic way. However, these people are ultimately influenced by the pathos of his speech: “His words made some impression; Silence reigned for a minute, but soon the same laughter and curses were heard..." (V, 27). Not only in the style of Marmeladov’s speech, but also in the reaction of the listeners to it, the combination of parody-buffoon and pathetic elements inherent in the legend of Hawk Moth was reflected. A significant and not accidental difference between the “plot” told by Marmeladov and the story about Hawk Moth is that Marmeladov, dreaming of restoring justice, sees it in the image of God’s last terrible judgment, while in the story of the 17th century. justice triumphs after the hero is installed in heaven. This difference expressed, first of all, the specific features of solving similar ethical problems, determined by both the era and the position of the author. Dostoevsky's hero dreams of the reign of truth, justice for all people and for all times. The hero of the 17th century story thinks only about his personal eternal bliss. The hero of Dostoevsky's novel, despairing of the opportunity to overcome the untruth and suffering that befalls people in a modern inhuman society, dreams of divine intervention in the complicated earthly affairs, the hawk moth from the legend story, even at the gates of heaven, relies on his own resourcefulness, does not humble himself before the decisions of the most revered saints and by the power of his argumentation and dexterity he knows how to achieve the “protection” of Christ himself.

In addition to the novel “Crime and Punishment,” a peculiar response to this legend can also be seen in the novel “The Idiot.” True, here this response is of a completely cursory nature, appearing in the form of a reminiscence. Prince Myshkin ends his story about the soldier who deceived him when selling a cross with the words: “Here I go, and I think: no, I’ll wait to condemn this seller of Christ. God knows what lies in these drunken and weak hearts” (VI, 250). In this case, Myshkin takes the position of the legendary merciful Christ who forgave Hawkmoth.

Thus, noting the convergence of ethical issues and its figurative embodiment in the episodes of the novels “Crime and Punishment” and “The Idiot” with the legend of Hawk Moth, we must note the complexity of the writer’s reaction to this work, his unusually subtle understanding of the folk poetic text and critical independence, freedom of his creative responses.

Dostoevsky, with his deep and complex approach to the inner world of man and to the moral assessment of his actions, could not take the path of directly using the legend as a literary model, but from the beginning of the 60s he turned to the legend, assimilated some of its motives, rethought others and polemics with third parties become a tangible element of his works. Dostoevsky’s creative contacts with folk legend especially make themselves felt in those novels of the writer in which the satirical, accusatory principle prevails or, on the contrary, the goal is to directly embody a moral ideal in a human image.

The poetry of folk legend is characterized by a sharp contrast between good and evil. Folklore has accumulated a wealth of experience in developing characters based on moral assessment. When creating his “evaluative” images, Dostoevsky took into account the folklore tradition both as the result of the creativity of folk poets, a reflection of their artistic worldview, and as the embodiment of the ethical views of the people, their insight in assessing the phenomena of the moral world. The writer strove to ensure that the “sentence” on which the character of his hero is based was not perceived as subjective, so that the “positively beautiful person” that he intended for the image of Prince Myshkin was surrounded by an aura of “universality” and, above all, nationality. Likewise, in the novel “Demons,” condemning the anarchist-terrorist conspiracy, which he was ready to pass off as a typical manifestation of the activity of revolutionaries in general, Dostoevsky wanted to find such an artistic description of the denied phenomena and heroes so that the attribute of anti-nationality attributed to them would be completely convincing. Folklore associations, legendary motifs that shone through in the background of the narrative, were “read” in its subtext, and also carried this ideological and artistic function. The very idea of ​​giving the character of a “positively beautiful” modern person the features of the legendary Christ, as if wandering around Russia, which forms the basis of Myshkin’s image, cannot but be associated with the idea that Christ and now “walks the earth, taking on the wandering appearance of the wretched,” “is a wanderer testing people’s hearts.”

In both collections published in 1860 - in Afanasyev’s book and in “Monuments of Ancient Russian Literature” (prepared by N. Kostomarov) - legends about fraternization with Christ are published. In Afanasyev’s collection, a similar legend is given the name “Christ’s Brother.” In both collections, the publication of its text is accompanied by commentary and information about the options.

The episode of fraternization between Myshkin and Rogozhin in the novel “The Idiot” should be compared with the legend of a person’s fraternization with Christ. After all, the writer himself insisted on the internal correlation of the image of Myshkin with Christ, and the motif of fraternization, very common in folklore, is completely unique in literature depicting the life of Russian society in the 19th century.

Speaking about the similarity of the legend “Brother of Christ” with the episode of the novel “The Idiot”, it should be emphasized that it is not one or another version of the legend, but the totality of its variants that reveals this similarity to the greatest extent. In one of the versions of the legend “Brother of Christ”, given in Afanasyev’s collection, a merchant’s son, expelled from his home by his father for wastefulness, enters into twinning with Christ (“then, perhaps, they will give away all the property!”), In the main text of “Brother of Christ” in In Afanasyev’s collection, during fraternization, crosses are exchanged, and the “sworn brothers” talk about the cost of the crosses. In the legend, the young host, having retired to rest with his guest after dinner, draws attention to his cross, which “burns like heat.” The wanderer (Christ) invites his hospitable host to exchange crosses, but he refuses, citing the fact that the poor man will no longer be able to buy such an expensive cross for himself. However, at the insistence of the guest, crosses are exchanged and the rite of fraternization is performed.

In the novel “The Idiot,” the motive for expelling a merchant’s son from his home for generosity is presented in a peculiarly refracted form: Rogozhin is forced to flee from his father’s wrath and actually hide in exile; The reason for the “disgrace” here is also the “breadth” of his nature, disdain for material calculations, although in the novel, unlike the legend, we are not talking about a generous alms, but about a generous gift.

In the fraternization episode in the novel, the motif of the monetary value of the cross appears in Myshkin's story about a soldier who sold him a tin cross for a silver one. This parable by Myshkin seems to give Rogozhin the idea of ​​fraternization. After listening to her, he offers to exchange crosses and exchanges his gold pectoral cross for a tin cross of a soldier, which Myshkin takes off. There is a kind of double fraternization going on. The soldier-passer-by, without knowing it, becomes the sworn brother of Myshkin, and then Rogozhin. Rogozhin, having completed the ancient ritual of fraternization, acquires a mysterious connection with both the prince and his casual acquaintance - the “Christ seller”, whom Myshkin so easily forgave for his sin.

In “Monuments of Ancient Russian Literature” N. Kostomarov published a version of the legend about twinning, the recording of which was in the Pogodinsky ancient repository. In this legend, the motive of twinning was enclosed in the following plot: the royal son Prov, who went to collect tribute, meets Christ on the way in the clothes of a slave. “And Prov’s speech to Christ: from which country are you? And Christ said to him: I am from above. Then he said: What is your name? The Lord said to him: My name is Immanuel. How did you say: how bad is your kindness? The Lord spoke to him: “I am a prince.”

Christ helps Prov in his “earthly” affairs - he collects tribute, enters into twinning with him and, having healed his blind father, sick mother and possessed wife, leaves. Having guessed who their guest was, Prov and his family grieve that he did not stay with them. Let us note that the very name by which Christ was called in the legend contains the solution to the problem, which, after all the miracles performed by their guest, is “solved” by Prov and his relatives: the name “Emmanuel” means: “God is with us.”

Thus, in various versions of the “Brother of Christ” legend we find features akin to the corresponding episode of the novel “The Idiot”. We find here three characters, in some essential aspects of their characteristics similar to the heroes of Dostoevsky: 1) Christ, who appeared from earthly non-existence (“from the mountains I am”), with a unique combination of a beggar appearance and a princely title (in sacred texts and apocrypha Christ is never called a prince ); 2) a rich man, immersed in earthly affairs; in some versions - a royal son (in Kostomarov and in variants - in Afanasyev), in others - a merchant's son or a rich peasant (in Afanasyev); in many versions of the legend, this rich man is unhappy, suffering and in need of help; 3) the possessed wife of a rich man. This last image is present, like the images of the sick mother and father, only in the Kostomarov version of the legend. A kind of explanation or “commentary” to the image of the demon-possessed woman, only mentioned in this legend, can be the description of the behavior of the demon-possessed woman in the legend of Solomonia, which depicts the tossing of a “demon-possessed” woman, forever wandering and not finding peace anywhere. Kostomarov’s text of the legend of fraternization is closest to the situations of Dostoevsky’s novel, since it does not contain episodes of the journey of Christ’s brother through the afterlife and edifying teachings about the grace of a merciful attitude towards the poor and wretched. These episodes, naturally, do not find a correspondence in the text of the novel.

Kostomarov's legend of fraternization breaks down into three plot points: 1) meeting with Christ on the road, 2) fraternization of Christ and the person who met him on the road, and 3) miracles of Christ - healings. The first two episodes find, albeit peculiar, but still undeniable correspondence in the novel “The Idiot”. Rogozhin meets Myshkin on the way; he is rich compared to poor Myshkin, whose wretchedness of clothes is not only noted, but is emphasized in every possible way in the text of the novel. Rogozhin is the bearer of earthly power. In the legend, the hero is the bearer of royal power, and this has a constructive meaning in the episode of collecting tribute; in Dostoevsky’s novel, the power that Rogozhin’s wealth gives him is immediately revealed by Rogozhin’s generous promises to “dress” his beloved Myshkin, give him a fur coat, give him money; Lebedev “proclaims” about it in flatteringly hyperbolic speeches. In the future, the power of Rogozhin’s capital is discussed more than once. When discussing the possibility of Rogozhin’s intervention in the fate of Nastasya Filippovna, the following conversation takes place, for example, between two heroes of the novel - Ganya Ivolgin and General Epanchin: “Are you afraid of a million? - Ganya grinned. “And you don’t, of course?” The general's answer contains irony (VI, 36).

However, the prince’s “powerful” acquaintance, like the hero of the corresponding legend, is deeply unhappy: his relatives are plagued by illness; the woman he loves is obsessed with conflicting passions that torment her; according to Myshkin, she is insane. Nastasya Filippovna's behavior, her tossing and wanderings bring to mind the descriptions of the escapes and wanderings of the possessed Solomonia. Myshkin, like Christ in the legend, has compassion for his new acquaintance, enters into a partnership with him, and wants to “arrange” his affairs.

Let us dwell in some detail on the episode of fraternization in the legend published by Kostomarov. Unlike the legend in Afanasyev’s collection, here the rite of fraternization is not accompanied by the exchange of crosses, but is “fixed” by an entry on the charter. “And the Lord took the charter and wrote down the brotherhood with his hand, and with his unfaithful lips said: Cursed is that man who made a brother and did not believe in him! This is truly a brotherhood greater than a brother born!”

Undoubtedly, faith in the holiness of the said brotherhood and the special sinfulness of the attempt on the life of a brother brother forces Rogozhin to enter into brotherhood with Prince Myshkin. To consolidate this act and support his belief in its significance (“Cursed is the man who made his brother and does not believe in him”), he brings Myshkin under the blessing of his mother. Myshkin instinctively guesses that Rogozhin wants to bind himself with the holiness of fraternization and make it impossible to fulfill his villainous plan. “How they exchanged crosses, then... and this thought stirred in me. Why did you take me to the old lady then? Did you think you could restrain your hand with this?” (VI, 413).

The plausibility of the psychological situation is ensured by the peculiarities of Rogozhin’s image. A man who grew up in a patriarchal environment, brought up in archaic views and traditions (his father was not an Old Believer, but respected the Old Believers and “kept to the old days” in everything), Rogozhin must know ancient folk beliefs and rituals and can observe them with full conviction of their high meaning. There is less immediate plausibility in the readiness and understanding with which Myshkin, who came from Switzerland, treats the ancient ritual in the novel. However, the writer gives a real justification for this side of Myshkin’s characterization. Already in the first chapters of the novel, he “provides” his hero with an “opportunity” to express his knowledge of paleography and his interest in Old Russian texts. “Don’t you have at least Pogodinsky’s edition, General?” - Myshkin says to Epanchin with surprise, referring to the album “Samples of Slavic Russian Ancient Writing” published by the historian M.P. Pogodin. In the general’s house, as it turns out later, there are no works by Pushkin. In the Epanchins’ living room, Myshkin talks about Abbot Paphnutius, who ruled a monastery in the Kostroma province in the 14th century.

Thus, both of Dostoevsky’s heroes, taking part in the fraternization ritual, find themselves attached to that ancient Russian culture, various manifestations of which were reflected in apocryphal legends.

Kostomarov’s notes to the legend of brotherhood contain information that can also add some additional nuances to the understanding of the episode of fraternization in the novel. The scientist writes about the custom of fraternization, reflected in folklore: “...often two enemies, having encountered each other with hostility and appreciating equal courage and bravery in each other, stopped fighting and entered into brotherhood”; “The named brotherhood was considered more valid than the native one”; “...there is (although already rare) the custom of exchanging pectoral crosses, a custom that signifies the establishment of mutual brotherhood between two persons.”

Commenting on the legend in which fraternization is not accompanied by the exchange of crosses, Kostomarov thus additionally connects this motif to the text he publishes. The scientist talks about the use of the motive of twinning in folklore works depicting enmity, and considers such a plot as a reflection of an ancient custom, thereby showing the tradition of “pairing” the motives of enmity and twinning, that is, the combination of plot moves that takes place in Dostoevsky’s novel . The conversation between Myshkin and Rogozhin in the latter’s house appears as a kind of duel, the culmination of their rivalry. Rogozhin, burning with cruel jealousy, is forced to recognize the courage and moral height of the prince and is ready to renounce hostility in the name of brotherhood. However, genuine peace, which in folklore works occurs with such a development of the plot, does not occur in Dostoevsky’s novel.

An analysis of the corresponding episodes of the novel “The Idiot” indicates that two plot points of the legend of twinning, placed in “Monuments of Ancient Russian Literature,” are reflected in this work of Dostoevsky. Weaving into the complex network of situations and collisions of the novel, the legendary motifs (meeting on the road with a mysterious beggar prince and twinning with a rival) were freed from the traits of naive didacticism and fantasy. Complicated by subtle psychological motivations, immersed in the flow of modern events, overwhelmed by their feverish contradictions and pace, traditional folklore plots have been deformed, sometimes very significantly, but this does not give us reason to ignore their significance in the artistic fabric of the work and underestimate the significance of the legend as an ideological and artistic phenomenon. which was comprehended and peculiarly assimilated by the writer as a whole.

Characteristic is the refraction in the novel “The Idiot” of the episode of “miracles” - the plot point of the legend of twinning that is farthest from the ideas of the writer himself. It would seem that this episode (“recognition” of the miraculous essence of the hero - Christ - through his miracles) is not reflected at all in the novel and could not be reflected in it as the most fantastic part of the plot. Indeed, throughout his entire creative career, starting with the story “Poor People” and ending with the novel “The Brothers Karamazov,” Dostoevsky painted the most cruel social and moral conflicts, the most blatant suffering of modern people and convincingly showed that the deliverance of man and humanity from suffering through a miracle impossible.

Indeed, the fantastic motive of the hero’s divine nature and his miraculous overcoming of evil is completely absent in the novel, and despite this, in “The Idiot” the writer’s reaction to this motive and its figurative and plot embodiment in the last part of the legend we are analyzing is palpable. The possibility of such responses is determined by the peculiarities of the artistic task that the writer set for himself in the novel, in particular by the plan that he realized in the image of Myshkin. The ideal image of this hero arose within the framework of Dostoevsky’s realistic artistic system. The writer invested in the development of this character all the power of his psychological clairvoyance, all his ability to penetrate the logic of a living human personality and correlate it with the logic of social circumstances. At the same time, he sought to embody in Prince Myshkin his ideal of the human personality, giving it national and universal significance. On the way to solving this prohibitively difficult task, the structure of the hero's image became especially complicated. The abundance of associations, prototypes and “countertypes” in relation to which this hero is perceived gives his figure volume, and his supposed internal comparison with the ideal “supertype” of Christ determines the symbolic-fantastic aura of this image, creating the basis for his rapprochement with the hero of the legend.

Myshkin, like Christ in the legend, wants to “make happy” those around him. All his thoughts are occupied with making every person and all people happy. Myshkin's tragedy lies in the fact that, interfering with the inexorable course of events, he cannot free people from the power of circumstances and their own passions, and in his desire to save a person he finds himself faced with the need to perform a miracle. Myshkin's inability to work miracles is a clear, albeit "minus" part of his characterization. If the Christ of the legend leaves people, triumphant, having “proved” his power over the troubles that oppress them with miracles, Prince Myshkin “burns up completely in the ideal” and, struck by grief, leaves the world forever. This difference testifies not to the complete independence of the image of Dostoevsky from the hero of the legend, but to its polemical beginning, to the opposition that is given against the general background of their rapprochement.

This side of Myshkin’s characterization is especially noticeable in the depiction of his relationship with Ippolit. Ippolit, an atheist and materialist, comes to Myshkin’s house, rising from the bed of an incurable illness, to expose the prince. In protecting Burdovsky, an aristocrat and a rich man, from him, offended by fate and society, he sees the last opportunity to demonstrate his philanthropy. Ippolit views Myshkin as his obvious ideological enemy. He confesses his “dislike” to him and at the same time reminds him that he considers him a zealous Christian (VI, 433). Subsequently, having finally become convinced that the prince is “a decidedly kind man” and that “there would be absolutely nothing to hate... him for,” Hippolyte nevertheless declares: “I, of course, can neither love nor respect the prince” (VI , 542). Ippolit is not only the ideological, but also the psychological antipode of Myshkin. Among the heroes of the novel, he, perhaps, with the greatest justification can be classified as one of the suffering egoists. And with this hero Dostoevsky connects the theme of Myshkin’s likeness to Christ. In the remarks addressed by Hippolyte to the prince, in his reasoning and unexpected at first glance reactions to the latter’s words, there runs a thin, “dotted” line of faith in the supernatural power of the prince and the expectation of healing from him. This bizarre attachment of the most intimate and symbolic-fantastic motif of the novel to the image of Hippolytus - a hero especially closely associated with the problems of modern social reality and called upon to represent its “malice” - has a number of reasons. The polemical element of the novel was reflected here - the writer’s desire to expose the worldview of young nihilists, to prove the inconsistency of their atheism in the face of death and fear of annihilation. The “glow” of bias and writerly antipathy falls on Hippolytus, especially where the author connects his egoism with his atheistic and materialistic views. At the same time, endowing Ippolit with the ability to feel the god-like nature of Myshkin’s ideal personality and to be imbued with boundless trust in such a person, Dostoevsky also pursued other literary goals. He often put the most important and direct assessments of the persons and events depicted in the mouths of heroes who were far from him - the author - in their positions and beliefs. This technique gave Dostoevsky the opportunity to show the complexity and inconsistency of the character of each person, the value of the spiritual world of the individual and avoid declarativeness in expressing his point of view. He was not afraid to bring this technique to a humorous effect. Thus, the first direct rapprochement between Prince Myshkin and Christ in the novel is given in a remark by General Epanchin, which represents a pun unconscious by the hero, almost a parody of the author’s thought. Delighted at the appearance of a stranger, in whose presence his wife will not be able to openly express her indignation, Epanchin thinks about Myshkin: “As if God sent him!” General Ivolgin, an old man lying and almost out of his mind, in a parodic context expresses an idea that is especially dear to the author. Addressing Myshkin, he says: “Prince, you are noble, like an ideal! What are the others before you? (VI, 550).

What is expressed by such heroes accidentally, unconsciously, what is funny, almost absurd sounds in their speech, in Ippolit is associated with an understanding of the high human merits of Myshkin and with an instinctive thirst for rapprochement with the prince - a thirst with which Dostoevsky’s heroes are often obsessed, experiencing the attraction of the opposing force, of the opposite moral and ideological type.

Ippolit realizes more clearly than others that Myshkin’s very personality represents a miracle, the most complete and, perhaps, the only embodiment of Man that he managed to encounter. Preparing for death, he peers into the prince’s face with the words: “I will say goodbye to the Man.” In accordance with his materialistic views and with the conclusions of the science of his time (Renan, Strauss), Hippolytus considers Christ to be a human person, albeit a perfect one, a creation of nature, then absorbed, like all living things, by the same omnipotent, all-creating and all-destroying nature.

However, despair in the face of inevitable and meaningless death and the lack of internal ideological and moral resources to overcome this despair not only forces him to seek moral support from Myshkin, but also awakens in him an unconscious belief in the possibility of miraculous salvation. This faith in Ippolit’s sick mind grows out of instinctive trust in Myshkin, complete conviction in his truthfulness and kindness. This is how the psychological basis arises for the great delusion of Hippolytus, contrary to reason, which serves as a means for the writer to expose the atheism of his hero, but at the same time expresses Dostoevsky’s divergence and polemics with the folk-legendary interpretation of the image of Christ. The content and ambiguity of this “amazing psychological trait” of Ippolit is such that at the same time it appears in the novel as a poetic insight into the innermost essence of the personality of Prince Myshkin - a “positively wonderful man.”

Having turned to his like-minded people - materialists and fanatical adherents of the natural sciences - for advice, Hippolytus in response receives a diagnosis, pronounced with a solemn awareness of the intrinsic value of a fact established by science, but in essence being an unappealable death sentence. Dostoevsky very subtly conveys the complex interweaving of Ippolit’s thoughts, the combination of his usual logic of positivism and empiricism with the extra-logical, superstitious and fantastic expectation of a miracle, which increasingly covers his consciousness.

Having received an urgent invitation from Myshkin to come to Pavlovsk, Ippolit, who is completely at the mercy of the mood generated by the death sentence - the diagnosis, decides to carry out his intention in Pavlovsk: to commit suicide and thus challenge the indifferent and blind power of nature. However, along with this decision and the feverish activity to implement it (preparing suicide, creating a kind of ideological testament), Ippolit begins to carefully analyze all of Myshkin’s words, all of his answers to his remarks and questions, looking for in the prince’s answers at least a shadow of a refutation of the verdict. Myshkin feels sorry for the patient, understands the feeling of rejection that weighs on Ippolit (he himself experienced a similar state), and Ippolit looks for a hint of the possibility of salvation behind his sympathy. Believing in the absolute truthfulness of the prince, Hippolyte “leads” him to, at least in order to soften his despair, “promise” him life, as if this could guarantee recovery and as if, having promised him life, contrary to nature and science, the prince can bestow it. The prince rejects all attempts by Hippolytus to force him to give him a word of hope. And each of them “leads his own line” so seriously and persistently, as if the life and death of Hippolytus really depended on the prince’s word. Ippolit records his conversation with Myshkin, who invited him to Pavlovsk: “When I noticed to him that it was okay to die anyway... and that for two weeks there was no need to stand on ceremony, he immediately agreed; but the greenery and clean air, in his opinion, will certainly produce some physical change in me, and my anxiety and my dreams will change and, perhaps, become easier. I again noticed to him, laughing, that he spoke like a materialist. He answered me with his smile that he had always been a materialist. Since he never lies, these words mean something.

My five-month hatred of him, it should be noted, began to completely subside in the last month. Who knows, maybe I came to Pavlovsk, the main thing was to see him” (VI, 439); and continues: “I was very surprised why the prince guessed just now that I was seeing “bad dreams”; he literally said that in Pavlovsk “my excitement and dreams” would change. And why dreams? He is either a physician or truly has an extraordinary mind and can guess a lot” (VI, 441).

Thus, the prince’s insight, the ability to “guess a lot” is linked in Ippolit’s consciousness with the ability to heal - he is a doctor, but this doctor is of a completely different quality than the physician Kislorodov - he is a magician. Listening to the reading of Ippolit's confession, Myshkin, out of compassion, suggests stopping this reading. Hippolyte, according to whose plan the announcement of the confession should end in suicide-protest, is immediately ready to interpret the prince’s proposal as a hint at the possibility of a different, successful outcome of the illness; after all, the hope of recovery makes suicide-protest, and therefore the reading of the confession-testament, meaningless. “Ippolit,” said the prince, “close your manuscript and give it to me, and go to bed here in my room. We'll talk before bed and tomorrow; but with that so as never to unfold these sheets again. Want to? — Is it possible?- Ippolit looked at him in complete surprise"(VI, 444; emphasis added - L.L.).

In Myshkin, Ippolit reads his lines full of despair about the impossibility of overcoming the soulless “machine” of nature and the resurrection of Christ, and then he recalls the miraculous healings that Christ performed. Having met again with the prince, Hippolytus again touches on the issue of miraculous healings, saying that it would be worth “rising from the dead” only to play an important historical role. Immediately he asks Myshkin a question with the last, faint glimmer of hope for a refutation: “Well, okay, well, tell me yourself, well, what do you think: how is it best for me to die?” Myshkin’s answer: “Pass us and forgive us our happiness!” (VI, 591) - brings final disappointment to Hippolytus. The prince offers him the consolation that renunciation from life can give. Hippolytus can only be consoled by a miracle that would bring him back to life. In the draft plans of the novel, the words addressed to the prince were put into Hippolyte’s mouth: “Another minute like this and I will rise again.”

Thus, Myshkin's inability to perform miracles is a unique motif of the novel.

Myshkin, if we follow Ippolit’s definition, “has an extraordinary mind and can guess a lot,” but he is not given the opportunity to “make happy” Rogozhin, whom he met on the way, to heal the insane Nastasya Filippovna, and he will not give consolation to Ippolit, who is waiting for him. And this is not only because Myshkin is not a god, but a man. The writer enters into polemics with the popular point of view, expressed in the legend, according to which a person’s happiness lies in achieving “earthly” goals and the omnipotence of God can manifest itself in the fact that he miraculously resolves real, important for a person, but for some reason tasks that are impossible for him to solve. Characteristic in this regard are the very names of the legends in Afanasyev’s collection, reflecting their content: “Miraculous Threshing,” “Miracle at the Mill,” “Healing,” etc.

It is enough to recall the plots of such legends as, for example, the legend “Apostle Peter”: the Apostle Peter, who begged Christ for the right to be God for one day, was forced that day to guard the geese, which a woman, who had gone to a holiday in a neighboring village, left in the field in her care God's Such stories, which outraged church leaders with their “blasphemous” humor, could not be close to Dostoevsky for another reason. They expressed too clearly the practicality of the people, their immersion in material and labor concerns and indifference to faith. Dostoevsky, polemicizing with the idea of ​​a miracle as a manifestation of “lack of faith” and mental weakness, with the mercilessness of a realist artist proving and showing the inconsistency of a naive belief in a miraculous deliverance from social evil, saw a true miracle in the possibility of embodiment in the real human character of the moral ideal that lives in people despite the chaos of the historical existence of mankind.

The “godlikeness” of the hero of Dostoevsky’s novel, “who has achieved complete moral and spiritual balance” (Saltykov-Shchedrin), is revealed not in the ability to perform miracles, but in the fact that his personality can long become a moral standard for humanity, a beacon illuminating the darkness of life and instilling hope for the fundamental possibility of different, beautiful relationships between people.

A continuation of the polemic with traditional ideas about manifestations of holiness is an episode in the novel “The Brothers Karamazov”, depicting a scandal and almost a riot in the monastery due to the fact that the dead body of Elder Zosima was subjected to decay.

In a note to the story about Shchila, the mayor of Novgorod, published in “Monuments of Ancient Russian Literature,” N. Kostomarov, explaining its content, which was entirely devoted to what miracles allegedly happened to the coffin of the mayor, who collected illegal taxes from the population, wrote: “The very way the punishment that Shchila suffers indicates the admixture of some original folk concepts with church concepts; the punishment of souls after death is reflected on the corpse, so that a person’s existence after death is connected with concepts about the state of his body after death.”

Let us recall that in The Brothers Karamazov these folk semi-pagan beliefs and concepts dominate not only the consciousness of the dark mass of monks led by the fanatic Ferapont, but partly also the educated Alyosha Karamazov. From the 60s - the time of publication of legends and work on the novel “The Idiot” - more than one thread stretches to “The Brothers Karamazov”, “reflecting” with the motives of the legends. It was noted above that the novel “The Idiot” did not reflect the last part of the legend “Brother of Christ” from Afanasyev’s collection: the hero’s journey through the afterlife and his unsuccessful attempt to “rescue” his evil mother from hell. This last episode was used as a separate legend by Dostoevsky in the novel The Brothers Karamazov.

Not being interested in this motif while working on The Idiot, Dostoevsky attached great importance to it later. He claimed that he heard this legend performed live and was the first to write it down: “I wrote down this jewel from the words of one peasant woman and, of course, wrote it down for the first time. At least I’ve never heard of it before.” Of course, it is quite possible that Dostoevsky heard and wrote down the legend about the unmerciful old woman who gave an onion to a beggar only once in her life; he might not have noticed exactly this version of it, given at the end of Afanasyev’s book in Ukrainian, or he might have forgotten about this version, published in eighteen years before The Brothers Karamazov appeared.

But it is permissible to make another assumption. All the letters that Dostoevsky wrote to N.A. Lyubimov during the publication of the novel are imbued with the anxiety of the writer, who feared that the editors of the Russian Messenger would oppose the publication of a number of passages in the novel. In a letter to Lyubimov dated June 11, 1879, Dostoevsky attacks Ivan Karamazov, declares about his speeches: “the mouth speaks proudly and blasphemously,” and claims that in the next book of the novel, the dying conversations of Elder Zosima will prove that “Christianity is the only refuge of the Russian Earth from all its evils."

There is clearly a sense of fear here that a strong, compelling presentation of the arguments of atheism might frighten the editors of the Russian Messenger.

In a letter to Lyubimov dated September 16, 1879, in the same place where he talks about his recording of the legend of the onion, Dostoevsky directly writes: “I beg you, Nikolai Alekseevich, not to cross out anything in this book. And nothing, everything is fine. There is only one word (about the corpse of a dead person): it stinks... Skip it for Christ's sake. There is nothing more." At the end of this letter, Dostoevsky makes two postscripts: the first concerns the episode with the decay of Zosima’s body and the riot in the monastery, the second constitutes the above-quoted confession about the legend that he allegedly wrote down for the first time. In the first postscript, Dostoevsky excitedly and deliberately tenderly convinces his correspondent that he deeply reveres the relics and that, having depicted the scandal with the corpse of Zosima, he is depicting only a particular, concrete case, having, moreover, a kind of predecessor in the person of the monk Parthenius. “For God’s sake, don’t think that I could allow myself, in my work, even the slightest doubt about the miraculous working of the relics. The matter is only about the relics of the deceased monk Zosima, and this is completely different. “A similar commotion, which is depicted in my monastery, happened once on Athos and was told briefly and with touching naivety in “The Wanderings of Monk Parthenius.”

It was not for nothing that the writer was afraid of being accused of not believing in the “miracle” of the relics. Depicting in a sharply satirical light the “rebellion” of the monks, disappointed in their expectation of “miracles” from the relics of the righteous, Dostoevsky views this attitude towards manifestations of holiness as a semi-pagan superstition. In this he turns out to be close not to the monk Parthenius, but to the historian Kostomarov, a commentator on legends.

In light of these features of Dostoevsky’s correspondence with Lyubimov and the entire context of the letter to Lyubimov dated September 16, 1879, there is reason to assume that the statement emphasized by Dostoevsky that he himself wrote down the legend of the onion and had never “heard it before” is a consequence of something firmly entrenched in memory the writer is aware of the censorship prohibition of texts published in Afanasyev’s collection.

The novel “Demons,” written after “The Idiot,” largely developed the concepts of this work that preceded it; just as in “The Idiot,” in the novel “Demons” the writer’s responses to the images of the poetic world of legend are especially noticeable. In the novel “The Idiot” the focus of the plan is the image of an ideal personality - the embodiment of the best aspirations of humanity, which Dostoevsky associated with a uniquely interpreted, rethought image of Christ, and “Demons” is a predominantly satirical work, a novel-pamphlet in which the writer wanted to bring together and “ cast” into living figures the evil of modern reality and its dangerous tendencies. Because of this, the legends that fed his imagination in each of these cases were not only different, but belonged, as it were, to mutually opposite circles of folklore ideas. If for the novel “The Idiot” folk poetic interpretations of the image of Christ, sometimes very far from the orthodox church ones, were of particular importance, then for “Demons” the legends that arose on the basis of folk demonology were extremely important. The central image of the novel - the image of Stavrogin - is focused on popular ideas about the “prince of darkness”, who was thought of by Dostoevsky as a symbolic and poetic embodiment of no less significant aspects of the moral existence of modern humanity than those principles that are presented in folklore images of Christ.

This idea, in a form that seems to anticipate the plan and system of poetic images of the novel “Demons,” was expressed by Dostoevsky in “The Idiot” through the mouth of Lebedev: “The devil equally rules over humanity until the limit of times still unknown to us... You don’t believe in the devil? Disbelief in the devil is a French thought, it is an easy thought... without even knowing his name, you laugh at his form, following the example of Voltaire, at his hooves, tail and horns, invented by you; for the unclean spirit is a great and terrible spirit, and not with hooves and horns...” (VI, 424).

These words foreshadow the appearance in Dostoevsky’s work of the image of Stavrogin - the embodiment of the “great and formidable spirit” of darkness, who, however, as often happened in artistic creativity, in the process of his transformation into a real human personality, historically and socially defined, lost a significant part of his greatness.

We have already noted above that the legend of Solomonia, published in “Monuments of Ancient Russian Literature,” could have been for Dostoevsky a kind of explanation for the mention of the possessed wife in the legend “Brother of Christ.” The very plot of the legend about Solomonia can be correlated with the central symbolic image of the novel “Demons”. As epigraphs for the novel “Demons,” Dostoevsky uses fragments from two works: an excerpt from Pushkin’s poem “Demons” and a parable from the Gospel of Luke. Both fragments are unconditionally related to the concept of Dostoevsky’s novel and shed light on it. The first of them, as it were, reveals the writer’s mood that gave rise to his plan - his horror at the chaos of modern social reality, at the uncertainty of the prospects for the development of life; the second conveys his hopes for the future “healing” of society, its path to harmony and moral health. Thus, the state of society contemporary to the writer and the state of society he depicts in epigraphs is defined as transitional, temporary, and the harsh satirical-tragic tone of the narrative is softened by them. However, the plot content of “Demons” itself is not indicated in any way by the epigraphs. The folk tale about Solomonia, possessed by demons, corresponds much more closely with the content of this novel and the very nature of its images. This legend, distinguished by a dynamic, dramatic plot, with a widely developed system of episodes, containing detailed descriptions, is a kind of folk “occult novel”, the characters of which are demons. Their “morals” and characters are revealed through the narration of the intrigues and intrigues they weave around Solomonia. Ideas about demons and their constant dangerous activities directed against morality and faith were widespread. Their origins go back to the ancient times of pagan cults, their vitality was supported by dual faith, on the one hand, and the mystical-religious concepts of Christianity, on the other. Criticism of the pagan naivety of popular ideas about devils is contained in the novel “The Brothers Karamazov”, in Father Ferapont’s holy fool’s stories about devils in the cells of monks. These stories are very close in spirit to one episode of the legend “Angel” included in Afanasyev’s collection. An angel, “thrown down” by God to the earth for his offense and becoming a worker, throws stones at the church cross in order to drive away the devils from it: “... the evil spirits for our sins are circling over the temple of God, and are clinging to the cross; so I started throwing stones at her.”

Lebedev also “polemicizes” with a concrete and almost humorous image of the devil, created by popular imagination, in the above-quoted words (the novel “The Idiot”). However, in this latter case, rejecting the concrete, visual image in which folk fantasy clothed the idea of ​​evil and vice, Dostoevsky expressed special interest in the very task of understanding evil as a principle underlying certain aspects of the relationships of modern people, and in attempts to find an artistic form for its implementation.

In the tale of Solomonia, numerous folk beliefs about devils are combined into a coherent narrative. Unlike other legends, the story about the machinations of demons and the suffering of a person possessed by them is replete with details that give it the character of a completely real description, a kind of “case history.” Even if we do not consider that Dostoevsky consciously focused, when depicting a society that generates “demons of nihilism” and is tormented by them, on the image of Solomonia, who committed the fall with demons, gave birth to them and became their victim, then one cannot help but admit that the folk legend is largely “anticipated” the artistic form of embodying the idea of ​​the dominance of evil, which Dostoevsky chose in “The Possessed.” It seems, however, that Dostoevsky knew this very popular legend and that in the vast series of life facts, prototypes and literary associations and analogies that fed the artistic fabric of this novel, the legend of Solomonia also takes its place. And in this case, as in many others, Dostoevsky “enters” into a complex creative “relationship” with the ancient story-legend. The plot, figurative system and symbolism of the legend only ultimately shine through in the background of the writer’s real picture of reality, inspired by the “modern thought”. The internal correlation of Dostoevsky’s narrative in “The Possessed” with the legend is generally felt only when perceiving the symbolic-poetic aura of the novel’s images, however, without its awareness, the artistic structure of the work cannot be correctly assessed. It should be taken into account that, as usual, Dostoevsky reacts simultaneously to a fairly wide range of homogeneous ideological and artistic phenomena. So, for example, in some episodes of “Demons” (“romance” with Lebyadkina), Stavrogin is similar in his characterization to the demon who appeared to Solomonia in the form of a beautiful young man. But this similarity, to a lesser extent than the abstract-symbolic plan of the novel and the likening of political adventures and conspiracies of anarchist-minded terrorists to the intrigues of demons, gives grounds for its rapprochement with the legend of Solomonia. The episode of Stavrogin’s secret marriage and his relationship with Lebyadkina unfolds on the basis of the second layer of legendary plots, which “build up” on the initial associative likening of Stavrogin to the head of the “demons” tormenting Russia. Stavrogin, as the protagonist of the episode, plot-demarcated from the broader historical and political narrative, is perceived in this part of the novel as a similarity to the heroes of legends about the cohabitation of a woman with the devil: or a basilisk.

These kinds of beliefs and legends, which often led to prosecutions and executions in the Middle Ages, especially spread in the West. Charles de Coster in his novel “The Legend of Ulenspiegel” built an important plot point on a similar legend and the attitude towards it in the 16th century. in Flanders and Spain. Thomas Mann, in his novel Doctor Faustus, described in detail German beliefs and legends about basilisks.

In Russian literature, we find a reflection of the legend about a woman’s “love” for the devil in Gogol’s stories “The Night Before Christmas” and “Notes of a Madman” - in Poprishchin’s crazy “observation”: “A woman is in love with the devil.” As in “The Idiot,” in “The Possessed” Dostoevsky connects the plot associated with the legend with the character of the novel, for whom the perception of the life situation through the traditional motives of folk beliefs is most organic and natural. The associative connection with the legend is thus motivated by the psychology of the hero, his perception of reality and is ensured by the fact that the reader “follows” the hero in his assessment of the incidents that are depicted in the novel. In “The Idiot,” as noted above, such heroes are Rogozhin and partly Myshkin, in “The Possessed” it is Lebyadkin’s “lame leg.” She sees her secret magnificent husband either in the halo of a deity, in the form of a brilliant and impeccable prince, or in the form of a werewolf-basilisk, a snake that has taken the form of a falcon. The fairy-tale element into which the personality of Stavrogin Lebyadkin “immerses” complicates the symbolic plan of the narrative and gives the “spirit of darkness” the features of a character in Russian folklore. The creative, ideological and creative beginning of Stavrogin’s personality is emphasized in his night conversation with Shatov, during which it turns out that Stavrogin is not only the ideological inspirer of Pyotr Verkhovensky, but also Kirillov’s teacher and Shatov’s mentor. He is credited with thoughts about the “God-bearing” people, about the national uniqueness of religious and moral ideas, about the “anti-Christian” nature of Catholicism and its harmful influence on the historical life of European peoples, and a number of other ideas close to Dostoevsky himself. The folk legendary-fairy tale tradition, to which Dostoevsky “connects” a chain of associations coming from the image of Stavrogin, portrays the demon not as low and funny, “with hooves and horns,” but as formidable and merciless, inhuman “due to his extraordinary ability to commit crime” and “ inclinations" take on a variety of forms, appropriating with each new mask the charm of the personality he is "pretending to be." In a conversation with Shatov, both the motive of Stavrogin’s disbelief and the idea of ​​the possibility of his attempt to “reconcile” with God through confession with the “holy” Father Tikhon arise. Shatov, hoping to restore Stavrogin's faith, advises him to visit Tikhon and expects great consequences from this meeting. The episode of the meeting of the suffering atheist with the bearer of the Orthodox religious doctrine, the “righteous man,” was planned while Dostoevsky was working on a novel with the supposed title “The Life of a Great Sinner,” the hero of which was supposed to be a man who, through terrible falls, debauchery and crimes, came to peace in religion. The meeting of the great sinner with the bearer of the “Orthodox idea” - Elder Tikhon - was supposed to contribute to his return to the fold of religious morality.

During the final processing of the novel, the phantasmagoria of intrigue and crimes of “demons” became the focus of the narrative. Stavrogin, the ideological leader of the youth, troubled by delusions and embarking on “monstrous deviations and experiments,” was portrayed, by the very essence of his predatory, “diabolical” character, as completely incapable of revival. All this led to the fact that the previously planned meeting of the sinner with the elder Tikhon acquired a completely new meaning.

From a dramatic scene of the conversion of a great sinner, the victory of religious morality over the “turmoil” of a strong, demonically proud, but sick soul, this episode turned into a depiction of a cunning moral test to which the bearer of evil, the “great and formidable spirit”, subjected an ingenuous righteous man, who, however, managed to penetrate the secret of the complex psychology of the person appearing before him and thus defeat the “temptation” of deception. On the way to solving such an artistic and ethical-psychological problem, Dostoevsky again met with a folk legend. A rapprochement with the legend of the testing of a righteous hermit by the devil through confession can be seen not only in the episode of Stavrogin’s confession developed by Dostoevsky (the chapter “At Tikhon’s”, completely revised and yet not included in his final text on the advice of M. Katkov), but also in the novel "The Brothers Karamazov" (book two). Unlike the chapter “At Tikhon’s,” where the hero, who embodies evil, “formally” announced his desire to confess and repent, the officially declared purpose of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov’s visit to Elder Zosima is a frank conversation and reconciliation in the presence of a respected clergyman with his son Dmitry. However, Fyodor Karamazov uses his stay in the elder’s cell to expose his own vices and the vices of others present under the guise of buffoonery and foolishness and, provoking a scandal, to “tempt” the elder Zosima. As if in order to lead the reader to an analogy with the legendary plot of the devil’s confession to the hermit, Dostoevsky puts the following self-esteem into Karamazov’s mouth: “... I don’t argue that there may be an unclean spirit in me, a small one, however, of a more important caliber “I would have chosen a different apartment...” (IX, 55). “Truly I am a lie and the father of lies! However, it seems that he is not the father of lies... well, at least the son of lies will be enough,” he continues, as if “making a reservation” that he considers himself a demon, and suddenly asks the elder the very question with which in the folk legend he addressed the hermit the devil who “tempted” him. "Teacher! - he suddenly fell to his knees, - what should I do to inherit eternal life? “It was still difficult to decide: is he joking, or is he really so moved?” (IX, 59, 58).

Afanasyev’s collection entitled “The Hermit and the Devil” contains three legends. None of the legends included in the main text of this collection contains a motive for the confession of the devil, however, the attempts of demons to tempt the righteous hermit, which ended in the latter’s victory, are present in all three legends of the main text. In one of them, the righteous man “saves” the devil himself in an unusual way. Having driven him into a nut by deception, he releases him on the condition that the devil sings “angelic voices”: “... the hermit released him into freedom, he fell to his knees and began to pray to God, and the unclean one sang angelic voices: that’s good! that's wonderful! See, devils used to be angels, that’s why they know angelic voices. As he began to sing, he ascended to heaven: God, therefore, forgave him for this singing.” This legend is infinitely far from orthodox religious ideas, however, it is interesting that in the legend the motive of the hermit’s struggle with the demon who appeared to tempt him is complicated by the affirmation of the dual nature of the demon (fallen angel) and the possibility of his revival under the influence of the righteous. This feature of the plot of this legend gives reason to see in it features akin to the original plan of the confession of the great sinner.

There is no reason to connect the legend about the righteous man and the demon, given in Afanasyev’s collection, either with Stavrogin’s confession, in the version that was prepared for publication in the magazine, or with the behavior of Fyodor Karamazov in Zosima’s cell. Much closer to these episodes of Dostoevsky’s novels is the legend placed in “Monuments of Ancient Russian Literature.” This is what we had in mind when we spoke about the coincidence of the meaning of Fyodor Karamazov’s pathetic exclamation addressed to Elder Zosima with the provocative question that the demon asks the hermit in the legend. The content of the legend in question is this: the demon Zerefer appears to the old hermit in human form and, declaring himself: “...I, O holy one, am not a man, but a demon, as I see it, is a multitude for the sake of my iniquities! » - asks him to ask God if he will accept his repentance. It should be noted that not only in the content of the request of the demon, on the one hand, and Fyodor Karamazov, on the other, not only in the insidiousness of their intent, but in the very style of their appeal to the righteous man, one can detect similarities. Like the demon who called the hermit “saint,” the hero of Dostoevsky’s novel calls Zosima a “sacred elder” and at the same time wants to violate his “holiness.” The writer specifically emphasizes the parody of Fyodor Pavlovich Karamazov’s address. “Alyosha shuddered all over at the “sacred elder”” (IX, 53), he notes.

Let us return, however, to the content of the legend about Zerefer. Having accepted the demon’s words as a sincere expression of repentance and humility, the hermit opens for him the path to salvation through prayer and ascetic self-denial. The demon laughed. Repentance is impossible for him, the righteous man could not “convert” him, but the demon did not seduce the hermit. This “balance of principles,” a kind of resolution of the conflict, when each of the heroes “remains with his own” and none of them wins a complete victory in single combat, distinguishes this legend from the legends of Afanasyev’s collection, in which either the hermit defeats the devil, punishes him, or even turns into an angel, or the devil defeats the hermit and brings him to the noose and hell (this option is placed in the notes to No. 20). It is the “incomplete”, non-categorical resolution of the plot of the ideological and psychological combat between the righteous man, the bearer of religious morality, and the sinner incapable of renewal (the demon) that is characteristic of both this legend and such episodes of Dostoevsky’s novels as Stavrogin’s confession and Fyodor Karamazov’s visit to the monastery .

We have seen that the process of Dostoevsky’s creative assimilation of the problematics and artistic means of legend was complex and contradictory: Dostoevsky often argued with folklore tradition, sometimes rethought it in a very original way, but forever included legends in the circle of literary phenomena that he “took into account” when delving into folklore. ethical ideas. At the same time, folklore materials and ancient Russian texts were combined in his mind with modernity, its interests, disputes, and the topic of the day. The legend became not just the source of images and plots of his novels, but one of the creative impulses that excited the writer’s thoughts. It “combined” in his imagination with other impressions, with other “accumulators” of artistic ideas, and left its mark on the ideal image of Prince Myshkin created by the writer - an image about which both Dostoevsky himself and Saltykov-Shchedrin, who rated him extremely highly, wrote that only in the distant future will a person perhaps achieve such moral perfection - and on the satirical figures that the writer created in anger and to which he sometimes managed to give a special, ominous expressiveness due to their rapprochement with the creations of folk fantasy and demonology.

Russian folk legends collected by Afanasyev, p. 89.

Russian folk legends collected by Afanasyev, p. 79.

Monuments of ancient Russian literature, vol. I, page 203.

Pearls were one of the most common and favorite jewelry in Rus'. They used it to embroider both royal clothes and peasants' festive outfits. The image of pearls as a significant detail of artistic storytelling appears in the works of Russian classics of different eras (about the existence of the word pearl and its derivatives in Russian culture, see the article by A.N. Shustov “Margarine is the brother of pearl barley” // Russian speech. 1997. No. 4).

In “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign,” the mention of pearls is associated with two stable associations. On the one hand, pearls have long become a symbol of spiritual purity. And the author of the “Tale” tells the following about Prince Izyaslav, who was abandoned by his brothers in difficult times and died defending the land from enemies: “There would be neither brother Bryachiaslav nor his friend Vsevolod, but only cast away the pearl soul from the brave body through the gold necklace" (Monuments of literature of Ancient Rus'. XII century. M., 1980. P. 382). On the other hand, unable to explain the true origin of pearls, ancient people considered them to be the tears of mermaids. Therefore, according to popular belief, even a dream about pearls was perceived as a harbinger of future misfortunes and tears. In the Lay, the Kiev prince Svyatoslav confides to those close to him his prophetic dream, full of bad omens. And one of them is the “great woman”, which was allegedly showered on the prince (Ibid. P. 378). That same morning he will hear the sad news of the death of Igor’s squad in the distant Polovtsian steppe. And then the Polovtsians will rush into Rus' with a devastating raid. On this occasion, Svyatoslav will utter his “golden word, mixed with tears” (Ibid. p. 380).

ON THE. Nekrasov, in the poem “Frost, Red Nose,” narrating how the widowed Daria grieved in the forest, directly likens her tears to pearls:

Another eyelash will fall off

And it will fall on the snow in a big way -

It will reach the very ground,

It will burn a deep hole;

He will throw another one onto a tree,

On the die - and, look, she

It will harden like a large pearl -

White and round and dense.

(Nekrasov N.A. Complete collection of works and letters: In 15 volumes, L., 1982. T. 4. P. 93). “My tears are not pearls. The tears of a grief-stricken widow,” Daria laments (Ibid. p. 97).

The traditional comparison in human perception of pearls and tears has led to the development of an ambivalent attitude towards this jewel in Russian everyday culture. Heirloom, inherited pearls were family pride, but using pearls as a gift was undesirable, so as not to bring trouble to the person. A.S. Pushkin, who knew folk beliefs and omens well, played up the fatal role of gifted pearls in his tragedy “The Mermaid.” The prince, leaving the girl he deceived, puts a pearl necklace on her as parting. And she suddenly almost physically feels the oppressive power of an evil gift:

A cold snake is pressing on my neck...

He entangled me like a snake, like a snake,

Not pearls.

(Pushkin A.S. Complete collection of works: In 16 volumes. M., 1948. T. 7. P. 196). Having torn the necklace and torn off the expensive bandage from her head, the girl throws herself into the river.

The poet also develops the same plot in the ballad “Yanysh the Prince,” which is included in the cycle “Songs of the Western Slavs”: The prince Yanysh fell in love

Young beauty Elitsa,

He loves her for two red summers,

In the third summer he decided to get married

On Lubus, the Czech princess.

He goes to say goodbye to anyone he used to say goodbye to.

He brings her chervonets,

Two gold rattling earrings,

Yes, a triple pearl necklace...

(Ibid. p. 360).

The number of pearl strings seems to personify the fatal number for the heroine: Yanysh leaves her in the third year of dating. Elitsa will repeat the fate of the heroine of "Rusalka". And in both cases, a necklace of “mermaid tears” not only becomes a harbinger of misfortune - broken love and the death of the heroines - but seems to bewitch them, opening the way to the mermaid kingdom.

Later F.M. Dostoevsky in his novel “The Idiot” uses a recognizable Pushkin motif. The rich man Totsky, having decided to get married, is looking for an opportunity to part decently, without scandalous publicity, with Nastasya Filippovna, who was once seduced by him. General Epanchin, who helped him in this, presents Nastasya Filippovna with a similar gift - “an amazing pearl that cost a huge amount.” It is no coincidence that the young woman’s expensive gift “was received with too cold a courtesy, and even with some kind of special grin” (Dostoevsky F.M. Complete collected works: In 30 vol. L., 1973. Vol. 8. With .44, 116). That same evening, in front of the guests, she will return the pearls to the general. However, this will no longer save her from a tragic fate. Like Pushkin's heroines, death awaits her.

The hero of the story N.S. Leskova “Pearl Necklace” Vasiliev, known for his wealth and stinginess, on the eve of the wedding of his beloved daughter Mashenka gives her “a completely unacceptable and ominous gift. He himself put a rich pearl necklace on her in front of everyone at dinner...”. The effect was unexpected: “Masha, having received the gift, began to cry.” And one guest angrily reproached Vasiliev for his carelessness: “He was reprimanded for the gift of pearls because pearls signify and foreshadow tears (Leskov N.S. Collected works: In 11 vol. M., 1958. T. 7. P. 442). It turned out that the owner himself knew this sign. He declares: “I, madam, also went through these subtleties at one time, and I know what cannot be given with the confidence of an expert who understands these things.” clarification: such beliefs mostly apply to sea pearls, but may not apply to freshwater pearls; on the contrary, they are beneficial to humans.” Proving that legends and prohibitions regarding pearls are “empty superstitions,” Vasiliev cites the example of Mary Stuart, who, out of superstition, wore only freshwater pearls, “from Scottish rivers, but they did not bring her happiness.” Vasiliev makes a mysterious promise to his daughter: “But you, my child, don’t cry and get out of your head that my pearls bring tears. This is not like that. On the next day of your wedding I will reveal the secret of these pearls, and you will see that you have no There is nothing to be afraid of prejudices...” (Ibid. pp. 442-443).

However, the example of Mary Stuart was unsuccessful; her tragic fate only confirmed the rumor about the evil properties of pearls. And the ending of the story, telling about Masha’s happy marriage, also did not refute popular beliefs. It’s just that the pearls turned out to be fake and therefore have no magical powers. On the one hand, Vasiliev wanted to test his son-in-law’s selflessness in this way. But on the other hand, no matter how hard he tried to appear in words as an opponent of “prejudices,” he nevertheless did not dare to step over the signs approved for centuries.

In some works, pearls act as a symbol of love temptation. So, in the play by A.N. Ostrovsky's "Snow Maiden" "trading guest" Mizgir, who returned from distant lands, boasts to the Snow Maiden that he got pearls,

Which is not in the crowns of kings,

Neither the queens in wide necklaces.

You can't buy it; worth half a kingdom

Pearl. Take turns? Things equal

You won't pick it up. Its price is equal to

Snow Maiden, your only love.

Let's take turns, take priceless pearls,

Give me love.

But the simple-minded hearts of the Berendeys live by different laws, and the Snow Maiden answers:

Priceless pearl

Keep it for yourself; I don't value it dearly

My love, but I won’t sell it:

I change from love to love.

But not with you. Mizgir.

(Ostrovsky A.N. Collected works: In 10 volumes. M., 1960. T. 6. P. 420).

Later I.S. Turgenev will write the story “The Song of Triumphant Love” and, perhaps, not without the influence of the play “The Snow Maiden”, will make an insert in the white autograph telling about the expensive gift that Mucius, having returned from distant countries, presented to his friend’s wife. Among the exotic rarities he brought was “a rich pearl necklace, received by Mucius from the Persian Shah for some great and secret service; he asked Valeria’s permission to place this necklace on her neck with his own hand; it seemed to her heavy and endowed with some strange warmth... it is so and clung to the skin" (Turgenev I.S. Complete collection of works and letters: In 30 volumes. M., 1982. T. 10. P. 51). With this gift the mysterious magic of seduction began, the influence of which brought Valeria, against her will, into the arms of Mucius.

Both in “The Snow Maiden” and in “The Song of Triumphant Love” the equivalent of rare “royal” pearls is love. But in Turgenev this theme receives a new development. If in “The Tale of Igor’s Campaign” the human soul was likened to pearls (“pearl soul”), then in the fantastic context of Turgenev’s story, the pearls seem to be infused with the unquenchable heat of Mucius’s soul. And the necklace, as if alive, acquires a “strange warmth”, clings to Valeria, just as Mucius strives for her with all his thoughts. With the death of Mucius, the witchcraft spells are dispelled, and Valeria thinks that she knows how to break the invisible connection that connected her with Mucius. She asks her husband: “Take this thing!” She pointed to the pearl necklace lying on the night table, the necklace given to her by Mucius, “and throw it immediately into our deepest well.” Turgenev also plays on the widespread belief that pearls become tarnished if their owner falls ill or dies: “Fabius took the necklace - the pearls seemed tarnished to him” (Ibid. p. 64).

It is characteristic that both Ostrovsky and Turgenev emphasize the “overseas” origin of pearls. Mucius was given it by the “Shah of Persia”. Mizgir obtained it “near the island of Gurmyza, where there is a warm, raging sea...” (Ibid. P. 420). On the one hand, the theme of oriental exoticism was organically woven into the artistic context of both Ostrovsky’s “spring tale” and Turgenev’s fantastic story. But it should also be noted that both works were created in the 70s of the 19th century. The post-reform era with the rapid development of the capitalist economy has adversely affected the Russian ecology. Caravans of ships and barges, timber rafting, and coastal factories uncontrollably polluted Russian rivers. And pearl shells, found only in clean water, were on the verge of complete extinction. According to Brockhaus and Efron, Russia, on the eve of the reform, sold abroad pearls worth 181,520 rubles, and a decade later, in 1870, only 1,505 rubles (Brockhaus F.A., Efron I.A. Encyclopedic Dictionary). At this time, pearls began to be subconsciously perceived as a fabulous rarity that could only be found in some distant countries, untouched by European civilization.

A.N. Ostrovsky in his play “The Comedian of the 17th Century,” restoring the everyday realities of the past of pre-Petrine Rus', also recalls the fact that then the abundance and cheapness of Russian pearls made them accessible to people of all classes. When guests come to the house of the widow-gold seamstress Perepechina to woo her daughter Natalya to Yakov, the clerk’s son, the inspection of the bride’s dowry begins with a casket filled with pearls. Perepechina boasts: “There is some loose grain in the casket. Look for yourself - Rolly and clean.” Everyone carefully examines the contents of the chest. And Natalya, who has long been in love with Yakov, feeling that the price of pearls is becoming the price of her happiness, remarks with displeasure: “They are bargaining like they are selling a horse” (Ostrovsky A.N. Op. op. pp. 254-255). But even in this plot of the play, popular beliefs about the evil properties of pearls are played out. It is because of him that discord begins between the matchmakers and Perepechina, which almost ends in a complete quarrel.

In the play L.A. In "The Tsar's Bride" pearls are also an object of bargaining and the theme of pearls is also intertwined with the theme of love, but in a different version. Lyubasha offers her treasured pearl necklace to the doctor Bomelius in exchange for a potion that could “dry up” Marfa Sobakin, whose beauty attracted the heart of Grigory Gryazny. However, Bomelius demands that Lyubasha pay for his service with her love. Grigory, together with the guardsmen, kidnapped Lyubasha from her home, but soon lost interest in her. The pearls and emerald ring that the girl promised Bomelius were gifts from Gregory.

Thus, in May’s play, Pushkin’s motif was also realized: the pearls given to Lyubasha turn out to be a harbinger of sadness and imminent separation from her lover. In another episode of the play, pearls act as a love spell talisman. Saburova told how the choice of the tsar’s bride took place in the palace and how the beauties presented to the tsar were dressed up: “What a waste of pearls! If only they could be sprinkled all over, Well, really, there will be four! On Koltovskaya alone it’s so scary...” The unprecedented abundance of pearls that adorned the girl attracted the sovereign’s attention to her: “... He deigned to joke with Koltovskaya, That he pulled her pearls, tea, and hands away” (May L.A. Selected Works. L., 1972. P. 389-390).
And although this time the tsar’s choice fell on Marfa Sobakina, the viewer, familiar with Russian history, remembered that after Marfa’s sudden death, Ivan the Terrible made Anna Koltovskaya his wife. But hardly anyone could envy her fate.

Thus, the image of pearls, surrounded by an aura of mystery and inextricably linked with dramatic love conflicts, became in Russian literature a symbol of women’s sadness as eternal as the world.

Gracheva I.V. Russian speech No. 3 (..2002)