When Societies Go Mad... Or Become Possessed

Dostoevsky’s Demons/Possessed is usually viewed as the satire of Russian nihilists of the 1860s, and their random acts of violence, including the murder of the student, named Ivanov, in Moscow.

But Dostoevsky sets his novel not in Moscow or St. Petersburg, but in a small provincial town, and besides individual crimes and a set of intellectual rebels, he depicts—rather clinically—the whole town going bonkers.

The leadership of the town and the whole district falls into the hands of incompetent and inexperienced, permissive and sloppy. Old money, and old connections still interfere and add to the confusion. Encourage to rebel and mock by their elders, youngsters embark on silly pranks, like stealing icons from the church and replacing them with pornographic pictures. The son of the richest woman in the district is engaged in all sorts of obnoxious if not criminal behavior, but charms local population with his Byronic angst.

Bit by bit, the whole society gets unravelled, graduating into misrule, more and more obnoxious pranks, drunkenness, murder, arson, riots, and lynching.

Of course, all sorts of philosophers and intellectuals, ranging from Berdiaev to Camus, focus on Dostoevsky’s individual nihilists and their pet theories of uber-mensch, or suicide as theological rebellion, or the nationalism as substitution of religious faith.

Fine, but they miss the point of the “possessed”—of the whole town getting unhinged and unraveled and embarking on the most destructive and self-destructive behavior. In the words of Pushkin, “God save us from Russian Revolt, merciless and meaningless.”

I believe that’s exactly what Dostoevsky depicts in his novel. Not the abuses of nihilistic thought, but a Russian revolt, meaningless and merciless. By the end of the novel, most of the characters are dead, killed or suicided. Houses burn, lives are being destroyed. Dostoevsky’s thought is simple—the permissiveness of leadership, its failure to confront or address the contentious issues, its desire to appear progressive by tolerating if not participating in youthful pranks, coupled with the desire of youth to dismiss their culture and tradition and push the envelope, is bound to unhinge and destroy any society.

I can’t help but thinking of the utter unhinging of the modern Ukraine in this connection. Didn’t they do the same? Bit by bit, the society got totally unraveled. History began to be re-written, former heroes replaced with the nazi-collaborators, peopled got banned and black-listed, threatened and intimidated. Mass rioting, idiotic marches and performances, bullying and intimidation became a norm. Language banned, people cancelled, monuments destroyed. Then violence got more and more out of hands. Civilians burned in Odessa, civilians bombed in Donbass. Furthermore, this unhinging, spread all over the world with the utter permissiveness from the Western governments. Now great Russian writers got banned, now culture is being canceled, athletes and opera stars humiliated, and the history re-written even further. More and more violence, more and more permissiveness, more and more hatred. And Dostoevsky saw, how it all ends: in universal conflagration.

And that’s where we are now, unfortunately. The lunatics took over the asylum, or the possessed got incarnated from the novel into reality.

Below are some of the amazing scenes from Dostoevsky’s novel. They don’t depict the stars of the novel: Stavrogin, Kirillor or Shatov, but instead, the general madness that took over the society on the verge of self-destruction. Scary and accurate!

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the maniac shouted with all his might, standing at the very edge of the platform and speaking with almost as shrill, feminine a voice as Karmazinov’s, but without the aristocratic lisp. “Ladies and gentlemen! Twenty years ago, on the eve of war with half Europe, Russia was regarded as an ideal country by officials of all ranks! Literature was in the service of the censorship; military drill was all that was taught at the universities; the troops were trained like a ballet, and the peasants paid the taxes and were mute under the lash of serfdom. Patriotism meant the wringing of bribes from the quick and the dead. Those who did not take bribes were looked upon as rebels because they disturbed the general harmony. The birch copses were extirpated in support of discipline. Europe trembled… But never in the thousand years of its senseless existence had Russia sunk to such ignominy…”

He raised his fist, waved it ecstatically and menacingly over his head and suddenly brought it down furiously, as though pounding an adversary to powder. A frantic yell rose from the whole hall, there was a deafening roar of applause; almost half the audience was applauding: their enthusiasm was excusable. Russia was being put to shame publicly, before every one. Who could fail to roar with delight? …The maniac went on ecstatically:

“Twenty years have passed since then. Universities have been opened and multiplied. Military drill has passed into a legend… In the law courts judgments are as wise as Solomon’s, and the jury only take bribes through the struggle for existence, to escape starvation. The serfs are free, and flog one another instead of being flogged by the land-owners. Seas and oceans of vodka are consumed to support the budget, and in Novgorod, opposite the ancient and useless St. Sophia, there has been solemnly put up a colossal bronze globe to celebrate a thousand years of disorder and confusion; Europe scowls and begins to be uneasy again.… Fifteen years of reforms! And yet never even in the most grotesque periods of its madness has Russia sunk …”

The last words could not be heard in the roar of the crowd. One could see him again raise his arm and bring it down triumphantly again. Enthusiasm was beyond all bounds: people yelled, clapped their hands, even some of the ladies shouted: “Enough, you can’t beat that!” … But at that moment a group of six men, officials more or less, burst on to the platform, seized the orator and dragged him behind the scenes. I can’t understand how he managed to tear himself away from them, but he did escape, darted up to the edge of the platform again and succeeded in shouting again, at the top of his voice, waving his fist: “But never has Russia sunk …”

But he was dragged away again. I saw some fifteen men dash behind the scenes to rescue him, not crossing the platform but breaking down the light screen at the side of it.… I saw afterwards, though I could hardly believe my eyes, the girl student… leap on to the platform with the same roll under her arm, dressed as before, as plump and rosy as ever, surrounded by two or three women and two or three men, and accompanied by her mortal enemy, the schoolboy. I even caught the phrase: “Ladies and gentlemen, I’ve come to call attention to the sufferings of poor students and to rouse them to a general protest …”

It would be difficult to imagine a more pitiful, vulgar, dull and insipid allegory than this “literary quadrille.” Nothing could be imagined less appropriate to our local society … The quadrille was made up of six couples of masked figures, who were not in fancy dress exactly, for their clothes were like every one else’s … “Honest Russian thought” was represented by a middle-aged gentleman in spectacles, dress-coat and gloves, and wearing fetters (real fetters). Under his arm he had a portfolio containing papers relating to some “case.” To convince the sceptical, a letter from abroad testifying to the honesty of “honest Russian thought” peeped out of his pocket.

All this was explained by the stewards, as the letter which peeped out of his pocket could not be read. “Honest Russian thought” had his right hand raised and in it held a glass as though he wanted to propose a toast. In a line with him on each side tripped a crop-headed Nihilist girl; while vis-à-vis danced another elderly gentleman in a dress-coat with a heavy cudgel in his hand. He was meant to represent a formidable periodical (not a Petersburg one), and seemed to be saying, “I’ll pound you to a jelly.” But in spite of his cudgel he could not bear the spectacles of “honest Russian thought” fixed upon him and tried to look away, and when he did the pas de deux, he twisted, turned, and did not know what to do with himself—so terrible, probably, were the stings of his conscience!

I don’t remember all the absurd tricks they played, however; it was all in the same style, so that I felt at last painfully ashamed. And this same expression, as it were, of shame was reflected in the whole public, even on the most sullen figures that had come out of the refreshment-room. For some time all were silent and gazed with angry perplexity. When a man is ashamed he generally begins to get angry and is disposed to be cynical. By degrees a murmur arose in the audience…

By morning the news had spread and an immense crowd of all classes, even the riverside people who had been burnt out had flocked to the waste land where the new house stood. It was difficult to get there, so dense was the crowd. “The fire wasn’t an accident,” I heard said in the crowd.

But the majority said nothing. People’s faces were sullen, but I did not see signs of much indignation.

I did not notice, however, that there was anyone egging the crowd on and I don’t want to accuse people falsely, though I did see and recognised at once in the crowd at the fire two or three of the rowdy lot I had seen in the refreshment-room.

I particularly remember one thin, tall fellow, a cabinet-maker, as I found out later, with an emaciated face and a curly head, black as though grimed with soot. He was not drunk, but in contrast to the gloomy passivity of the crowd seemed beside himself with excitement. He kept addressing the people, though I don’t remember his words; nothing coherent that he said was longer than “I say, lads, what do you say to this? Are things to go on like this?” and so saying he waved his arms.”