Part 12
“There are seconds--they come five or six at a time--when you suddenly feel the presence of the eternal harmony perfectly attained. It’s something not earthly--I don’t mean in the sense that it’s heavenly--but in that sense that man cannot endure it in his earthly aspect. He must be physically changed or die. This feeling is clear and unmistakable; it’s as though you apprehend all nature and suddenly say, ‘Yes, that’s right.’ God, when He created the world, said at the end of each day of creation, ‘Yes, it’s right, it’s good.’ It--it’s not being deeply moved, but simply joy. You don’t forgive anything, because there is no more need of forgiveness. It’s not that you love--oh, there’s something in it higher than love--what’s most awful is that it’s terribly clear and such joy. If it lasted more than five seconds, the soul could not endure it and must perish. In those five seconds I live through a lifetime, and I’d give my whole life for them, because they are worth it. To endure ten seconds one must be physically changed. I think man ought to give up having children--what’s the use of children, what’s the use of evolution when the goal has been attained? In the Gospel it is written that there will be no child-bearing in the resurrection, but that man will be like the angels of the Lord....”[121]
“‘Kirillov, does this often happen?’
“‘Once in three days, or once a week.’
“‘Don’t you have fits, perhaps?’
“‘No.’
“‘Well, you will. Be careful, Kirillov. I’ve heard that’s just how fits begin. An epileptic described exactly that sensation before a fit, word for word as you’ve done. He mentioned five seconds too, and said that more could not be endured. Remember Mahomet’s pitcher from which no drop of water was spilt while he circled Paradise on his horse. That was a case of five seconds too; that’s too much like your eternal harmony, and Mahomet was an epileptic. Be careful, Kirillov, it’s epilepsy.’
“‘It won’t have time.’ Kirillov smiled gently.”[122]
In _The Idiot_ we hear Prince Myshkin connect this condition of euphoria, familiar to him too, with the epileptic attacks to which he is subject.
So there we have Prince Myshkin an epileptic, Kirillov an epileptic, Smerdiakov an epileptic. There is an epileptic in each of Dostoevsky’s great works. We know Dostoevsky himself was thus afflicted, and his persistence in making epilepsy intervene as a factor in his novels sufficiently indicates the rôle he assigned this disease in moulding his ethical conceptions and directing the course of his thought.
If we seek far enough, we shall invariably find the genesis of every serious moral reform in some physiological enigma, some non-satisfaction of the flesh, irritation, or anomaly. Forgive me for quoting myself again, but if I am to express my idea as explicitly as before, I must use the same phraseology as on that previous occasion.
“It is natural that every important moral change, or, as Nietzsche would say, _transmutation of values_, should be due to some physiological disturbance. With physical well-being, mental activity is in abeyance, and as long as conditions continue to be satisfactory, no change can possibly be contemplated. By conditions I mean spiritual circumstance, for where the external and material are implicated, the reformer’s motive is utterly different: the one readjustment involved is chemical, the other mechanical. There lies at the root of every reform a distemper. The reformer is a sick man by reason of some ill-adjustment in his spiritual balance. Densities, ratios, and moral values present themselves to him in different perspectives, so he exerts himself to establish a fresh accord. He aims at a new co-ordination. His work is nothing but an attempt to reorganize, in the light of his logic and reasoning, the elements of confusion he senses within himself, for the unsystematic he cannot tolerate. Of course I do not suggest that lack of balance is the necessary condition for the making of a reformer, but I do contend that every reformer starts out with a lack of balance.”[123]
So far as I know, it would be impossible to find, amongst the reformers who have held up to humanity a new measure of values, one single instance where we could fail to discern what Dr. Binet-Sanglé is pleased to qualify a _hereditary taint_.[124]
Mahomet was an epileptic. Epileptics, too, the Prophets of Israel, and Luther, and Dostoevsky. Socrates had his demon, Saint Paul his mysterious “thorn in the flesh,” Pascal his abyss, Nietzsche and Rousseau their mania.
I can hear you say, “But what is there new in this theory? It belongs properly to Lombroso and Max Nordau. Genius is a neurosis.” No, not so fast! I must insist on this point, for it is extraordinarily important.
There do exist geniuses, Victor Hugo for example, sane and whole. Their perfect spiritual poise precludes the possibility of any fresh problem. Rousseau, without his leaven of madness, would, I am sure, be no better than an undigested Cicero. It is pointless to lament the infirmity but for which he would never have sought to analyse the problem raised by his own anomaly or find a harmony which would not reject his discord. Sound and healthy reformers do undoubtedly exist, but such are lawgivers. The man whose inner balance is perfect can well contribute reforms--reforms which touch the outer man: he draws up new constitutions. But the individual who is abnormal refuses to submit to laws already established.
From knowledge of his own case, Dostoevsky supposes a pathological condition which, for a space, imposes and suggests to one or other of his characters a new formula of existence. To take a concrete instance, let us consider Kirillov, who carries on his shoulders the entire plot of _The Possessed_. We are aware he intends to take his life, but not that his suicide is imminent: self-destruction is, however, certainly in his mind. Why? The motive is withheld almost till the very end of the book.
“I don’t understand what fancy possesses you to put yourself to death,” says Pyotr Stepanovitch to him. “It wasn’t my idea; you thought of it yourself before I appeared, and talked of your intention to the committee abroad before you said anything to me. And you know, no one has forced it on you; no one of them knew you, but you came to confide in them yourself, from sentimentalism. And what’s to be done if a plan of action here, which can’t be altered now, was founded upon that with your consent and upon your suggestion?--_your_ suggestion, mind that!”[125]
Kirillov’s suicide is absolutely gratuitous. I mean to say there is an absence of outward motivation. We shall presently see what absurdities are introduced into this world under cover of a _gratuitous act_.
After Kirillov resolves to take his life, everything becomes a matter of profound indifference to him. His peculiar state of mind which sanctions and accounts for his suicide (gratuitous, but _not_ without a motive) will leave him unmoved by the imputation of a crime others will commit and which he will calmly suffer to be laid at his own door. Such at least is Pyotr Stepanovitch’s belief.
Pyotr Stepanovitch imagines the crime he is planning will strengthen the bonds between the conspirators he heads and over whom he feels his control weakening. He reckons that each individual party to the plot, having shared in the crime, will feel his complicity and be unable, indeed will not dare, to break away. Who is to be sacrificed?
Pyotr Stepanovitch is still undecided. It is necessary that the victim should present himself spontaneously.
The conspirators are met together in a large room; in the course of conversation, the question is asked, “Can there be, even now, an informer in our midst?” An extraordinary commotion follows this remark: everybody begins to talk at once.
“‘Gentlemen, if that is so,’ Verhovensky went on, ‘I have compromised myself more than anyone, and so I will ask you to answer one question, if you care to, of course. You are all perfectly free.’
“‘What question? What question?’ every one clamoured.
“‘A question that will make it clear whether we are to remain together, or take up our hats and go our several ways without speaking.’
“‘The question! The question!’
“‘If any one of us knew of a proposed political murder, would he, in view of the consequences, go to give information, or would he stay at home and await events? Opinions may differ on this point. The answer to the question will tell us clearly whether we are to separate, or to remain together, and for far longer than this one evening.’
“After which Pyotr Stepanovitch begins to interrogate apart several members of this secret society. He is interrupted.
“‘It’s an unnecessary question. Every one will make the same answer. There are no informers here.’
“‘What’s that gentleman getting up for?’ cried the girl student.
“‘That’s Shatov. What are you getting up for?’ cried the lady of the house.
“Shatov did, in fact, stand up. He was holding his cap in his hand and looking at Verhovensky. Apparently he wanted to say something to him, but was hesitating. His face was pale and wrathful, but he controlled himself. He did not say one word, but in silence walked towards the door.
“‘Shatov, this won’t make things better for you!’ Verhovensky called after him enigmatically.
“‘But it will for you, since you are a spy and a scoundrel!’ Shatov shouted to him from the door as he went out.
“Shouts and exclamations again.
“‘That’s what comes of a test,’ cried a voice.”[126]
Thus the victim is marked, and by his own hand. Haste is imperative: Shatov’s murder must anticipate his denunciation.
We must admire Dostoevsky’s art in this, because constantly carried away in my enthusiasm to discuss his ideas, I am afraid I have neglected all too much his wonderful skill in exposition.
At this juncture in the narrative, an astounding thing comes to pass which raises a particular artistic problem. It is a commonplace that, passed a certain point in the evolution of the plot, there must be nothing to deflect attention: events must move more quickly and lead straight to the ultimate issue. Well, this is the moment, when the
## action has entered on its phase of maximum rapidity, that Dostoevsky
contrives to introduce the most startling interruptions. He is conscious that so tense is his reader’s attention everything will assume an importance out of all proportion. With this knowledge, he does not hesitate to distract attention from the main course of events by brusque modulations which develop his most cherished ideas. The very night Shatov is destined to turn informer or be murdered, his wife, whom he has not seen for years, suddenly reappears at his house. Her time is at hand, but at first Kirillov does not realize her condition.
Inadequately handled, this scene could become grotesque. It ranks amongst the finest in the book. In theatrical jargon it would be described as a _utility_, in literature as a _cheville_, but it is precisely one of the rarest manifestations of Dostoevsky’s artistry. Like Pushkin he could say, “I have never treated anything lightly,” which is the hallmark of a great artist, utilizing everything, transforming disadvantage into opportunity. At this stage the pace needs must slacken, and every detail that can arrest events in their precipitancy becomes of supreme importance. The passages where Dostoevsky describes the arrival, unannounced, of Shatov’s wife, the conversation between husband and wife, Kirillov’s interposition, and the prompt establishment of an intimacy between the two men, constitute perhaps the most moving chapter in the book. We marvel anew at the utter absence of jealousy I discussed with you on a previous occasion. Shatov knows that his wife is going to have a child, but the father of this child she expects is not even mentioned. Shatov is consumed with love for this suffering creature who can find none but words that wound.
“It was only that fact [i.e. his wife’s reappearance] that saved the scoundrels from Shatov’s carrying out his intention, and at the same time helped them to get rid of him. To begin with, it agitated Shatov, threw him out of his regular routine, and deprived him of his usual clear-sightedness and caution. Any idea of his own danger would be the last thing to enter his head at this moment when he was absorbed with such different considerations.”[127]
But to come back to Kirillov: the time is at hand when Pyotr Stepanovitch calculates personal advantage from the other man’s suicide. What grounds has Kirillov for taking his own life? Pyotr Stepanovitch questions him: he has no clear idea, and is seeking clumsily to get at the truth. Up till the last minute, he is in terror lest Kirillov change his mind and thus escape him. But no!
“I won’t put it off. I want to kill myself now,”[128] says Kirillov.
The conversation between Verhovensky and Kirillov is especially obscure, obscure even in Dostoevsky’s own mind. As we have earlier observed, Dostoevsky never expresses his ideas as ideas pure and simple, but always through the medium of his characters who become their interpreters. Kirillov is in a highly unusual pathological state, for in a moment or two he is going to take his own life, and his talk is agitated and incoherent. We are left to unravel in it the clue to Dostoevsky’s own thought.
The idea which prompts Kirillov’s suicide is of a mystic nature and closed to Pyotr Stepanovitch’s comprehension.
“If God exists, all is His will, and from His will I cannot escape. If not, it’s all my will, and I am bound to show self-will.... I am bound to show myself because the highest point of my self-will is to kill myself with my own hands....”
“‘God is necessary and so must exist,’ said Kirillov.
“‘Well, that’s all right then,’ encouraged Pyotr Stepanovitch.
“‘But I know He doesn’t and can’t.’
“‘That’s more likely.’
“‘Surely you must understand that a man with two such ideas can’t go on living?’
“‘Must shoot himself, you mean?’
“‘Surely you understand that one might shoot oneself for that alone?’
“‘But you won’t be the only one to kill yourself: there are lots of suicides.’
“‘With good cause! But to do it without any cause at all, simply for self-will, I am the only one.’
“‘He won’t shoot himself,’ flashed across Pyotr Stepanovitch’s mind again.
“‘Do you know,’ he observed irritably, ‘if I were in your place, I should kill someone else to show my self-will, not myself. You might be of use. I’ll tell you whom, if you are not afraid. Then you needn’t shoot yourself to-day, perhaps. We may come to terms.’”[129]
For a moment Pyotr Stepanovitch dreams, in the event of Kirillov’s refusing to carry out his plan of self-destruction, of using him as the instrument to murder Shatov, instead of merely imputing the crime to him.
“‘To kill someone else would be the lowest point of self-will, and you should show your whole soul in that. I am not you; I want the highest point, and I’ll kill myself.... I am bound to show my unbelief,’ said Kirillov, walking about the room. ‘I have no higher idea than disbelief in God. I have all the history of mankind on my side. Man has done nothing but invent God so as to go on living, and not kill himself: that’s the whole of universal history up till now. I am the first one in the whole history of mankind who would not invent God.’”[130]
Do not forget Dostoevsky’s Christianity is real. What he reveals in Kirillov’s declaration is again a case of moral bankruptcy. Dostoevsky, I repeat, has visions of salvation only through renunciation. But a fresh idea has crept in to complicate his theory: to illuminate it, I must have recourse once more to William Blake’s _Proverbs of Hell_.
“_If others had not been foolish, we should be so._” In order that we might be spared foolishness, others consented to foolishness before us.
Into Kirillov’s half-mad brain enters the idea of sacrifice: “I will begin and open the door and save--mankind.”
If it is necessary that Kirillov be abnormal in order to entertain such ideas--ideas moreover which Dostoevsky does not unreservedly sanction since they betoken insubordination--there is none the less a particle of truth in his conception, and if it is necessary that Kirillov be abnormal in order to entertain such ideas, it is that we also may have them in our day, yet be in our right mind.
“‘So at last you understand!’ cried Kirillov rapturously. ‘So it can be understood if even a fellow like you understands. Do you understand now that salvation for all consists in proving this idea to every one? Who will prove it? I! I can’t understand how an atheist could know that there is no God and not kill himself on the spot. To recognize that there is no God, and not to recognize at the same instant that one is God oneself is an absurdity, else one would certainly kill oneself. If you recognize it, you are sovereign, and then you won’t kill yourself, but live in the greatest glory. But one, the first, must kill himself, for else who will begin and prove it? So I must certainly kill myself, to begin and prove it. Now I am only a God against my will, and I am unhappy, because I am bound to assert my will. All are unhappy because all are afraid to express their will. Man has hitherto been so unhappy and so poor because he has been afraid to assert his will up to the highest point, and has shown his self-will only in little things, like a schoolboy.... But I will assert my will, I am bound to believe that I don’t believe. I will begin and will make an end of it and open the door, and save--mankind. For three years I’ve been seeking the attribute of my Godhead and I’ve found it; the attribute of my Godhead is self-will. That’s all I can do to prove in the highest point my independence and my new terrible freedom. For it is very terrible, and I am killing myself to prove my independence and my new terrible freedom.’”[131]
Blasphemous as Kirillov’s words may appear, rest assured that Dostoevsky, in drawing his figure, was possessed by the idea of Christ, by the necessity of the Crucifixion as a sacrifice to redeem mankind. If Christ had to be offered up, was it not that we, Christians, might be such without dying His death? “_If Thou be Christ, save Thyself!_” If Christ had saved Himself, mankind would have been lost: to save it, He surrendered His own life.
These few lines of Dostoevsky’s, taken from his _Essay on the Bourgeoisie_, throw fresh light on Kirillov’s figure.
“Be clear as to my meaning! Voluntary sacrifice, offered consciously and without constraint, the sacrifice of the individual for the good of mankind, is to my mind the mark of personality in its noblest and highest development, of perfect self-control--the absolute expression of free will. To offer one’s life for others, to suffer for others on the cross or at the stake, is possible only when there is a powerful development of the personality. A strongly-developed personality, conscious of its right to be such, having cast out fear, cannot use itself, cannot be used except in sacrifice for others, that these become like unto itself, self-determinate and happy. It is Nature’s law, and mankind tends to reach it.”[132]
At last you see why behind Kirillov’s talk, which seemed at first hearing somewhat incoherent, we succeed in discerning what was the philosophy of Dostoevsky himself.
I am conscious how far I am from having exhausted the teaching that can be found in his books. I insist once more on the fact that I have sought, consciously or unconsciously, what had most intimate connection with my own ideas. Others no doubt will be able to discern different things. And now that I am come to the end of my last paper, you are awaiting, I am sure, a conclusion of some kind from me. Whither does Dostoevsky lead us? What precisely is his teaching?
Some will say that he leads us straight to Bolshevism, although they know the horror Dostoevsky professed for anarchy. The whole of _The Possessed_ prophesies the revolution of which Russia is at present in the throes. But every man who, in defiance of existing systems, contributes new _tables of values_ is bound to seem, in the eyes of the conservative, an anarchist. Conservative and nationalist, deigning to see no more than what is chaotic in Dostoevsky, conclude he can be of no service whatsoever to us. To which my reply is that their opposition seems to do great hurt to the genius of France. By our unwillingness to accept anything foreign unless it reflects our system and logic, our whole likeness, in short, we err most grievously. His conception of beauty happens to differ from our Mediterranean standards, and were the divergence even greater, of what use would our national genius be, how could we apply our logic practically, unless in instances which clamour for regulation? In meditating none but her own likeness, the reflection of her past, France is exposed to a mortal danger. Let me explain my meaning as accurately and temperately as possible. It is well that France should have conservative elements reacting and taking a stand against what savours of foreign invasion. But what justifies the existence of these elements if not this fresh contribution without which French culture would ere long be nothing but a hollow form, a hardened shell? What do they know of France’s genius? What _do_ we know, except its past? It is the same with national feeling as with the Church. I mean the conservative elements often mete out to genius the same treatment as the Church to her saints at times. Many who were rejected, repulsed, denied in the name of tradition, are become its very corner-stones.
My opinion of intellectual protectionism I have often voiced: I believe it presents a great peril; on the other hand, any essay in intellectual denationalization involves a risk no less considerable. I am merely expressing what was Dostoevsky’s finding likewise. There never was an author more Russian in the strictest sense of the word and withal so universally European. Because it is essentially Russian, his humanity is all-embracing and touches each one of us personally.
“Veteran European Russian” he chose to describe himself. I shall let Versilov of _A Raw Youth_ develop Dostoevsky’s idea this time!
“The highest Russian thought is the reconciliation of ideas, and who in the whole world could understand such a thought at that time? I was a solitary wanderer: I am not speaking of myself personally--it’s the Russian idea I’m speaking of. There all was strife and logic; there the Frenchman was nothing but a Frenchman, the German nothing but a German, and this more intensely so than at any time in their history. Consequently never had the Frenchman done so much harm to France, or the German to Germany, as just at that time! In these days in all Europe there was not one European! I alone of all the vitriol-throwers could have told them to their face that their Tuileries was a mistake. And I alone among the avenging reactionists could have told them that the Tuileries, although a crime, was none the less logical. And that, my boy, was because I, as a Russian, was the only European in Russia. I am not talking of the whole Russian idea....