The Gambler and Anatoly Alone

We mentioned some time ago that the magnificent Russian author Fyodor Dostoevsky was addicted to roulette and at one particularly low point even pawned his wife’s wedding ring. Coincidentally, his dreadful gambling habit actually led to meeting this wife in the first place.

In late September 1866 Dostoevsky was (again) in desperate need of funds in order to pay off gambling debts. So he entered into a chancy contract with a publisher, promising that he would complete a new novel by 1 November. If this strict deadline was not met, the publisher would acquire the right to publish Dostoevsky’s works for the next nine years without any compensation to the author. 

With little more than a month at his disposal, Dostoevsky had not yet written a single line. The situation was dire and at the suggestion of a friend, he hired a stenographer to assist in this gargantuan task – Anna Snitkina. She began work on 4 October and amazingly, the novel was completed 26 days later, on 30 October.  It was titled The Gambler and was partially based on Dostoevsky’s rather vast experience in the casinos of Europe. So impressed was Dostoevsky with Anna that in November 1866 he proposed and in February of the next year the two were married.  For the rest of his life, Anna remained an invaluable help to the brilliant author: in addition to her massive stenographical work on all of his future novels, she also managed finances and negotiations with publishers, and soon eliminated Dostoevsky’s debts. In 1871, he gave up gambling for good.

Meanwhile, it’s time to follow in Dostoevsky’s summer footsteps and head to Staraya Russa, a provincial town about four hours south of Petersburg, where the Dostoevskys first summered in 1872 and came every year thereafter until the author’s death in January 1881. 

 

The Dostoevskys' summer home -- the only piece of real estate they every owned -- is now a beautifully restored museum.

Tbis is the humble desk where Dostoevsky penned a large portion of his astounding Brothers Karamazov, arguably the best novel ever written. Much of the story was set in a fictitious version of Staraya Russa. 

Ach, the glove that touched the hand that wrote Brothers Karamazov!

Dostoevksy's summer home is located on the banks of a river that seems a fitting subject for a painting by Monet. 

Today Staraya Russa, one of the oldest towns in the nation, remains a charming, bucolic spot, perched on the banks of the Polist River. 

The Church of the Resurrection reflects in the river's still waters under the cool northern sun.

People sunbathe and swim....

...and watch the water drift by.

Gee, this woman looks like she could be from New Jersey!

Two grandmas sit congenially (?) in the summer sun.

Well, there is still some time before it's necessary to catch the bus out of town, and a little nourishment sounds like a good idea, so I head into an, ahem, atmospheric cafe on what appears to be a main lane in this outback town. A foreboding of the clientele is provided via the alcoholic artwork in the window.

Not long after I sit down with a paltry slice of white bread topped by paper-thin meat and cucumber, Anatoly separates himself from the group of imbibers at the next table and joins me.  I suggest juice or perhaps even beer, but he insists on a round of vodka that comes served in glasses fit for water. After one gulp down the hatch he starts talking.

"Why," he asks, "did we ever destroy communism?  Back then there was work, everyone had jobs, everyone had medical care. Now all the factories here have been closed down. Me, I'm driving a mini bus around town, 6o dollars a shift, sometimes I do two shifts. Everything is bad and it's only going to get worse."

At one point in a past that seems separated from the present by an uncountable amount of time, Anatoly apparently had two or maybe even three apartments. Unclearly, he somehow managed to be divested of them and would be homeless now were it not for his friend Sergei, an "Afghanets" -- Sergei served in the Soviet Army in Afganistan back in the 80s and became disabled during that long, brutal war. But his pension isn't enough to live on, and so Anatoly is saving the day by paying for food and utilities -- and it seems alcohol.  He orders another round.

"I had a girlfriend," he continues morosely, "we were together a long time, but she died a month ago. She was 49. I never saw her sober. And then she kicked the bucket on me. Now I'm all alone -- well, I guess, except for Sergei...."

He wants me to meet Sergei and says he'll fix me a bowl of the tasty Russian cold summer soup, but -- time is up, and given Anatoly's state of sobriety, I doubt that the promised soup would ever truly be served. He accompanies me to the bus stop, picking up a bottle of vodka along the way for him and Sergei to share. As the bus pulls out, Anatoly waves good-bye with one hand and clutches the bottle of vodka with the other. Characters worthy of Dostoevsky's novels are still roaming the lanes and ale houses of Russia.