Romanov Riches: Russian Writers and Artists Under the Tsars

As soon as he learned of Dostoevsky’s death, Pobedonostsev wrote to the heir, “He was a close friend and I am sad that he is gone. But his death is a great loss for Russia, too. Among writers he—perhaps the only one—was a fervent preacher of the basic principles of Faith, Nationality, love of Homeland. Our miserable youth, lost like sheep without a shepherd, trusted him, and his influence was very great and beneficial.”¹⁸

Pobedonostsev asked the heir to request Alexander II to help the Dostoevsky family: “He was poor and left nothing but books.” The future Alexander III responded instantly, “I am very, very sorry about the death of poor Dostoevsky, it is a great loss and positively no one can replace him.”¹⁹

With a nudge from Pobedonostsev, the state shifted into full speed in organizing the funeral. On Pobedonostsev’s direct orders, the Alexander Nevsky Monastery (the central Russian Orthodox monastery) offered Dostoevsky’s widow space for his burial in their prestigious cemetery, the resting place of Karamzin and Zhukovsky, the favorite writers of the Romanovs. For a former state prisoner and convict who had never been in government service, this was unprecedented generosity. The imperial treasury paid for Dostoevsky’s funeral.

Dostoevsky’s widow received a letter from the minister of finances, which read, “The Emperor on the 30th day of this January beneficently decreed: in view of the services of your late husband to Russian literature, in which he held one of the most honorable places, you, esteemed madam, and your children will receive a pension of two thousand rubles a year.”²⁰ Alexander II also ordered that if the widow wished it, her children’s education would be paid for as well. Pobedonostsev became their guardian.

The daily newspapers, which Pobedonostsev so hated, gave enormous coverage to the tsar’s munificence. Alexander II was portrayed as the patron of Russian culture who knew, unlike his father, Nicholas I, how to forgive former dissidents. The moves from above coincided with public sentiment, and Dostoevsky’s funeral turned into a huge public event, imbued with symbolic meaning.

The coffin, enveloped in gold brocade and covered with wreaths, was borne by pallbearers from Dostoevsky’s apartment to the monastery, accompanied by an enormous procession (the newspapers said there were thirty thousand people). The St. Petersburg intelligentsia was present, as were students. The crowd sang the solemn prayer “Holy God” continually; many wept. Pobedonostsev could be satisfied.

The liberal Annenkov, a close friend of Turgenev’s, reported sarcastically to France,

What a pity that Dostoevsky could not see his own funeral—his loving and envious soul and his Christian and angry heart would have been soothed. No one else will ever have such a funeral. He is the only one given to the earth in this way, and before only Patriarch Nikon and Metropolitan Filaret Drozdov got something approximating his send-off. Be joyous, dear shade. You accomplished being added to the list of your predecessors of the holy and Byzantine type. Perhaps soon your relics will be sanctified and my children will hear the prayer, “Saint Fedor, intercede with God on our behalf.”²¹

Dostoevsky’s widow always said that if he had not died on January 28, 1881, he would have been killed by news of the “villainy of 1 March,” when a month after the writer’s death the Tsar Liberator Alexander II was assassinated by a bomb thrown by a terrorist. The antimonarchist fanatics, whom Dostoevsky had so feared and hated, had, it seemed, succeeded. Russia was in shock.

But Pobedonostsev was on top of the situation, as always. He knew his former student, the new emperor, Alexander III. He immediately sent him a confidential letter that formulated the policy of the new monarch: “You are receiving a Russia that is bewildered, shaken, swept off course, and thirsting to be led by a firm hand.”²²

CHAPTER 13

Alexander III, the Wanderers,

and Mussorgsky

On March 1, 1881, eleven-year-old Alexandre Benois, later a famous painter, heard the persistent ringing of the doorbell in his family townhouse in St. Petersburg. His father was being examined by the boy’s older cousin, Dr. Leonty Benois. When the boy answered the door he saw a terrified policeman who shouted, “Is Dr. Benois here? He’s wanted! The tsar was just killed! A bomb blew off his legs! The chief of police is wounded! Thirty-four wounds!”¹

As Benois later recalled, he almost passed out. They didn’t want to believe him when he ran into his father’s bedroom with the terrible news. “The Lord has spared the tsar so many times, we’re sure this time will be all right, too.” But the imperial standard had already been lowered to half-staff over the main gates of the royal residence, the Winter Palace, and people were kneeling and weeping on the palace square.