A couple of years ago I came across an anecdote about Dostoevsky’s first story, “Poor Folk.” Although I have almost forgotten it meanwhile, I remember quite distinctly that I had been telling it to almost anyone for weeks. The anecdote immediately struck me as extraordinary, but it was hard for me to determine why. Since I believe that I understand at least one aspect of the anecdote now, I am returning to it. Here it is. Dostoevsky gave his story to a friend or acquaintance, whose name I cannot remember any more. This man read the story the same evening. When he finished it, sometime after midnight, he was so delighted that he took it to Belinsky, one of the most highly regarded literary critics in St. Petersburg at the time, and a man of immense influence in literary circles. I do not know much more about Belinsky, even though I do recall that I have read an essay about him. Parenthetically, the very fact that Dostoevsky’s friend or acquaintance could approach Belinsky this late at night indicates that this man was not utterly insignificant in his own right. Be this as it may, Belinsky started reading the story the moment he got it, and when he was finished early in the morning, he went to Dostoevsky’s quarters himself to tell him a few simple words: “You are a born writer.” Well, I must confess that I am not sure of his exact words either. The details should not matter here, anyway. As far as I remember, Dostoevsky later told someone that he had been writing all his life in order to justify Belinsky’s declaration. The anecdote has fascinated me for one simple reason: Dostoevsky believed he wrote because of Belinsky. Their direct relationship is crucial here. It was not literature that defined it. On the contrary, this relationship defined literature. The multitudes of those who later read and admired Dostoevsky’s writing were almost entirely insignificant vis-à-vis one single man. My fascination can thus be expressed in the form of a rather pitiful question: Where are you now Belinsky?

Addendum I (May 27, 1983)

Dostoevsky’s literary debut is outlined by Vladimir Nabokov, not an admirer of the writer, in his Lectures on Russian Literature:

Dostoevsky received his education first at a boarding school in Moscow, then at the Military Engineers’ School in Petersburg. He was not particularly interested in military engineering, but his father had desired him to enter that school. Even there he devoted most of his time to the study of literature. After graduation he served at the engineering department just as long as was obligatory in return for the education he had received. In 1844 he resigned his commission and entered upon his literary career. His first book Poor Folk (1846) was a hit both with the literary critics and the reading public. There are all sorts of anecdotes concerning its early history. Dostoevsky’s friend and a writer in his own right, Dmitri Grigorovich, had persuaded Dostoevsky to let him show the manuscript to Nikolay Nekrasov, who was at the time publisher of the most influential literary review Sovremennik (The Contemporary). Nekrasov and his lady friend Mrs. Panaiev entertained at the office of the review a literary salon that was frequented by all the worthies of contemporaneous Russian literature. Turgenev, and later Tolstoy, were among its constant members. So were the famous left-wing critics Nikolay Chernyshevski and Nikolay Dobrolyubov. Being published in Nekrasov’s review was enough to make a man’s literary reputation. After leaving his manuscript with Nekrasov, Dostoevsky went to bed full of misgivings: “They will poke fun at my Poor Folk,” he kept telling himself. At four in the morning he was awakened by Nekrasov and Grigorovich, who made an irruption into his apartment and smothered him with smacking Russian kisses: they had begun to read the manuscript in the evening and could not stop until they had read it to the end. Their admiration had been so great that they decided to wake up the author and tell him what they thought of him at once. “What matter that he sleeps: this is more important than sleep,” they said.

Nekrasov took the manuscript to Belinsky and declared that a new Gogol had been born. “Gogols seem to grow like toadstools with you,” remarked Belinsky dryly. But his admiration after reading Poor Folk was unbounded too and he asked immediately to be introduced to the new author and showered upon him enthusiastic praise. Dostoevsky was transported with joy; Poor Folk was published in Nekrasov’s review. Its success was enormous. Unfortunately it did not last. His second novel, or long short story, The Double (1846), which is the best thing he ever wrote and certainly far above Poor Folk, met with an indifferent reception. In the meantime Dostoevsky had developed a tremendous literary vanity, and being very naïve, unpolished, and but poorly equipped where manners were concerned, contrived to make a fool of himself in his dealings with his newly acquired friends and admirers and eventually to spoil completely his relations with them. Turgenev dubbed him a new pimple on the nose of Russian literature.[1]

Nabokov’s stabs notwithstanding, this outline corresponds reasonably well to my recollection. Although my speculative argument can be neither accepted nor dismissed on the basis of this passage alone, it remains plausible to me. And my question, pathetic as it is, remains my question, regardless of the fact that my literary ambitions have vanished forever. This is, admittedly, at least in part due to Nabokov’s disgust with Dostoevsky’s literary machinations. But not only his literary machinations, I must add. Nabokov’s as well. To wit: my question has become generalized. This is the essence of my “religious deviation.”

Addendum II (March 14, 2015)

At long last, I know the answer to my question: Belinsky does not exist. In fact, Belinsky has never existed. All these years, he has been but a figment of my imagination. So much for the “religious deviation” of my youth. Phew!

Footnote

1. Nabokov, V., Lectures on Russian Literature, New York and London: Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, 1982, pp. 99-100.