No More Learning

Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care less eyes, lips, hands to miss.
Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth if the other do,
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.
¦


## p. 4774 (#570) ###########################################

JOHN DONNE
4774
The first edition of Donne's poems appeared two years after his
death. Several editions succeeded during the seventeenth century.
In the more artificial eighteenth century his harsh and abrupt versi-
fication and remote theorems made him difficult to understand. The
best editions are 'The Complete Poems of John Donne,' edited by
Dr. Alexander Grosart (1872); and 'The Poems of John Donne,' from
the text of the edition of 1633, edited by Charles Eliot Norton (1895),
from whose work the citations in this volume are taken.
THE UNDERTAKING
HAVE done one braver thing
Than all the Worthies did,
And yet a braver thence doth spring,
Which is, to keep that hid.
It were but madness now t' impart
The skill of specular stone,
When he which can have learned the art
To cut it, can find none.
So, if I now should utter this,
Others (because no more
Such stuff to work upon there is)
Would love but as before:
But he who loveliness within
Hath found, all outward loathes;
For he who color loves, and skin,
Loves but their oldest clothes.
If, as I have, you also do
Virtue attired in women see,
And dare love that and say so too,
And forget the He and She;
And if this love, though placed so,
From profane men you hide,
Which will no faith on this bestow,
Or, if they do, deride;
Then you have done a braver thing
Than all the Worthies did,
And a braver thence will spring,
Which is, to keep that hid.


## p. 4775 (#571) ###########################################

JOHN DONNE
4775
A VALEDICTION FORBIDDING MOURNING
A$
S VIRTUOUS men pass mildly away,
And whisper to their souls to go,
Whilst some of their sad friends do say,
"The breath goes now," and some say "No";
So let us melt and make no noise,
No tear-floods nor sigh-tempests move;
'Twere profanation of our joys
To tell the laity our love.
Moving of th' earth brings harms and fears;
Men reckon what it did and meant;
But trepidation of the spheres,
Though greater far, is innocent.
Dull sublunary lovers' love
(Whose soul is sense) cannot admit
Absence, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.
But we by a love so much refined
That ourselves know not what it is,
Inter-assurèd of the mind,
Care less eyes, lips, hands to miss.
Our two souls, therefore, which are one,
Though I must go, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansiòn,
Like gold to airy thinness beat.
If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two;
Thy soul, the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth if the other do,
And though it in the centre sit,
Yet when the other far doth roam,
It leans and hearkens after it,
And grows erect as that comes home.
Such wilt thou be to me, who must,
Like th' other foot, obliquely run;
Thy firmness makes my circle just,
And makes me end where I begun.


## p. 4776 (#572) ###########################################

4776
JOHN DONNE
SONG
GⓇ
O AND catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Then, when thou return'st, wilt tell me
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
Nowhere
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know;
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not: I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet;
Though she were true when you met her,
And last till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two or three.
LOVE'S GROWTH
I
SCARCE believe my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude and season as the grass;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make it more.
But if this medicine love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not only be no quintessence
But mixed of all stuffs paining soul or sense,
And of the sun his working vigor borrow,


## p. 4777 (#573) ###########################################

JOHN DONNE
4777
Love's not so pure and abstract as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their muse,
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.
And yet no greater, but more eminent,
Love by the spring is grown;
As in the firmament
Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,
Gentle love-deeds, as blossoms on a bough,
From love's awakened root do bud out now.
If, as in water stirred, more circles be
Produced by one, love such additions take,
Thou, like so many spheres, but one heaven make,
For they are all concentric unto thee;
And though each spring do add to love new heat,
As princes do in times of action get
New taxes and remit them not in peace,
No winter shall abate the spring's increase.
SONG
WEETEST Love, I do not go
For weariness of thee,
SWE
Nor in hope the world can show
A fitter Love for me:
But since that I
Must die at last, 'tis best
To use myself in jest
Thus by feigned deaths to die.
Yesternight the sun went hence,
And yet is here to-day;
He hath no desire nor sense,
Nor half so short a way.
Then fear not me,
But believe that I shall make
Speedier journeys, since I take
More wings and spurs than he.
Oh, how feeble is man's power,
That, if good fortune fall,
Cannot add another hour,
Nor a lost hour recall!


## p. 4778 (#574) ###########################################

4778
JOHN DONNE
But come bad chance,
And we join to it our strength,
And we teach it art and length,
Itself o'er us to advance.
When thou sigh'st, thou sigh'st not wind,
But sigh'st my soul away;
When thou weep'st, unkindly kind,
My life's blood doth decay.
It cannot be
That thou lov'st me as thou say'st,
If in thine my life thou waste;
Thou art the best of me.
Let not thy divining heart
Forethink me any ill;
Destiny may take thy part,
And may thy fears fulfill:
But think that we
Are but turned aside to sleep:
They who one another keep
Alive, ne'er parted be.


## p. 4779 (#575) ###########################################

4779
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
(1821-1881)
BY ISABEL F. HAPGOOD
N CERTAIN respects Dostoevsky is the most characteristically
national of Russian writers. Precisely for that reason, his
work does not appeal to so wide a circle outside of his
own country as does the work of Turgénieff and Count L. N. Tolstoy.
This result flows not only from the natural bent of his mind and
temperament, but also from the peculiar vicissitudes of his life as
compared with the comparatively even tenor of their existence, and
the circumstances of the time in which he lived. These circum-
stances, it is true, were felt by the writ-
ers mentioned; but practically they affected
him far more deeply than they did the
others, with their rather one-sided training;
and his fellow-countrymen-especially the
young of both sexes- were not slow to ex-
press their appreciation of the fact. His
special domain was the one which Turgén-
ieff and Tolstoy did not understand, and
have touched not at all, or only incident-
ally, the great middle class of society, or
what corresponds thereto in Russia.
FEODOR DOSTOEVSKY
Through his father, Mikhail Andréevitch
Dostoevsky, Feodor Mikhailovitch belonged
to the class of "nobles," - that is to say,
to the gentry; through his mother, to the respectable, well-to-do
merchant class, which is still distinct from the other, and was even
more so during the first half of the present century; and in personal
appearance he was a typical member of the peasant class. The
father was resident physician in the Marie Hospital for the Poor in
Moscow, having entered the civil service at the end of the war of
1812, during which he had served as a physician in the army. In
the very contracted apartment which he occupied in the hospital,
Feodor was born - one of a family of seven children, all of whom,
with the exception of the eldest and the youngest, were born there
-on October 30th (November 11th), 1821. The parents were very
upright, well-educated, devoutly religious people; and as Feodor ex-
pressed it many years later to his elder brother, after their father



## p. 4780 (#576) ###########################################

4780
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
died, "Do you know, our parents were very superior people, and they
would have been superior even in these days. " The children were
brought up at home as long as possible, and received their instruction
from tutors and their father. Even after the necessity of preparing
the two elder boys for a government institution forced the parents
to send them to a boarding-school during the week, they continued
their strict supervision over their associates, discouraged nearly all
friendships with their comrades, and never allowed them to go into
the street unaccompanied, after the national custom in good families,
even at the age of seventeen or more.
Feodor, according to the account of his brothers and relatives,
was always a quiet, studious lad, and he with his elder brother
Mikhail spent their weekly holidays chiefly in reading, Walter Scott
and James Fenimore Cooper being among their favorite authors;
though Russian writers, especially Pushkin, were not neglected. Dur-
ing many of these years the mother and children passed the sum-
mers on a little estate in the country which the father bought, and
it was there that Feodor Mikhailovitch first made acquaintance with
the beauties of nature, to which he eloquently refers in after life,
and especially with the peasants, their feelings and temper, which
greatly helped him in his psychological studies and in his ability to
endure certain trials which came upon him. There can be no doubt
that his whole training contributed not only to the literary tastes
which the famous author and his brother cherished throughout their
lives, but to the formation of that friendship between them which
was stronger than all others, and to the sincere belief in religion and
the profound piety which permeated the spirit and the books of
Feodor Mikhailovitch.
In 1837 the mother died, and the father took his two eldest sons
to St. Petersburg to enter them in the government School of Engi
neers. But the healthy Mikhail was pronounced consumptive by
the doctor, while the sickly Feodor was given a certificate of perfect
health. Consequently Mikhail was rejected, and went to the Engi-
neers' School in Revel, while Feodor, always quiet and reserved, was
left lonely in the St. Petersburg school. Here he remained for three
years, studying well, but devoting a great deal of time to his pas-
sionately beloved literary subjects, and developing a precocious and
penetrating critical judgment on such matters. It is even affirmed
that he began or wrote the first draft of his famous book 'Poor
People,' by night, during this period; though in another account he
places its composition later. After graduating well as ensign in 1841,
he studied for another year, and became an officer with the rank of
sub-lieutenant, and entered on active service, attached to the draught-
ing department of the Engineers' School, in August 1843.


## p. 4781 (#577) ###########################################

FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOÉVSKY
4781
A little more than a year later he resigned from the service, in
order that he might devote himself wholly to literature. His father
had died in the mean time, and had he possessed any practical
talent he might have lived in comfort on the sums which his
guardian sent him. But throughout his life people seemed to fleece
him at will; he lost large sums at billiards with strangers, and other-
wise; he was generous and careless; in short, he was to the end
nearly always in debt, anxiety, and difficulties. Then came the first
important crisis in his life. He wrote (or re-wrote) 'Poor People';
and said of his state of mind, as he reckoned up the possible pecun-
iary results, that he could not sleep for nights together, and "If my
undertaking does not succeed, perhaps I shall hang myself. " The
history of that success is famous and stirring. His only acquaintance
in literary circles was his old comrade D. V. Grigorovitch (also well
known as a writer), and to him he committed the manuscript. His
friend took it to the poet and editor Nekrásoff, in the hope that it
might appear in the 'Collection' which the latter was intending to
publish. Dostoevsky was especially afraid of the noted critic Bye-
linsky's judgment on it: "He will laugh at my 'Poor People,' said
he; "but I wrote it with passion, almost with tears. "
He spent the evening with a friend, reading with him, as was the
fashion of the time, Gogol's 'Dead Souls,' and returned home at four
o'clock in the morning. It was one of the "white nights" of early
summer, and he sat down by his window. Suddenly the door-bell
rang, and in rushed Grigorovitch and Nekrásoff, who flung them-
selves upon his neck. They had begun to read his story in the
evening, remarking that "ten pages would suffice to show its qual-
ity. " But they had gone on reading, relieving each other as their
voices failed them with fatigue and emotion, until the whole was
finished. At the point where Pokrovsky's old father runs after his
coffin, Nekrásoff pounded the table with the manuscript, deeply
affected, and exclaimed, "Deuce take him! " Then they decide to
hasten to Dostoevsky: "No matter if he is asleep-we will wake
him up.
This is above sleep. "
This sort of glory and success was exactly of that pure, unmixed
sort which Dostoevsky had longed for. When Nekrásoff went to
Byelinsky with the manuscript of 'Poor People,' and announced, "A
new Gogol has made his appearance! " the critic retorted with sever-
ity, "Gogols spring up like mushrooms among us. " But when he
had read the story he said, "Bring him hither, bring him quickly;"
and welcomed Dostoevsky when he came, with extreme dignity and
reserve, but exclaimed in a moment, "Do you understand yourself
what sort of a thing this is that you have written ? » From that
moment the young author's fame was assured, and he became known


## p. 4782 (#578) ###########################################

4782
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOÉVSKY
and popular even in advance of publication in a wide circle of lit-
erary and other people, as was the fashion of those days in Russia.
When the story appeared, the public rapturously echoed the judg-
ment of the critics.
The close friendship which sprang up between Byelinsky and Dos-
toevsky was destined, however, to exert an extraordinary influence
upon Dostoevsky's career, quite apart from its critical aspect. Bye-
linsky was an atheist and a socialist, and Dostoevsky was brought
into relations with persons who shared those views, although he him-
self never wavered, apparently, in his religious faith, and was never
in harmony with any other aspirations of his associates except that
of freeing the serfs. Notwithstanding this, he became involved in the
catastrophe which overtook many visitors, occasional or constant, of
the "circles" at whose head stood Petrashevsky. The whole affair is
known as the Conspiracy of Petrashevsky. During the '40's the
students at the St. Petersburg University formed small gatherings
where sociological subjects were the objects of study, and read the
works of Stein, Haxthausen, Louis Blanc, Fourier, Proudhon, and
other similar writers. Gradually assemblies of this sort were formed
outside of the University. Petrashevsky, an employee of the Depart-
ment of Foreign Affairs, who had graduated from the Lyceum and
the University, and who was ambitious of winning power and a repu-
tation for eccentricity, learned of these little clubs and encouraged
their growth. He did not however encourage their close association
among themselves, but rather, entire dependence on himself, as the
centre of authority, the guide; and urged them to inaugurate a sort of
propaganda. Dostoevsky himself declared, about thirty years later,
that "the socialists sprang from the followers of Petrashevsky; they
sowed much seed. " He has dealt with them and their methods in
his novel Demons'; though perhaps not with exact accuracy. But
they helped him to an elucidation of the contemporary situation,
which Turgénieff had treated in Virgin Soil. ' The chief subject
of their political discussions was the emancipation of the serfs, and
many of Petrashevsky's followers reckoned upon a rising of the serfs
themselves, though it was proved that Dostoevsky maintained the
propriety and necessity of the reform proceeding from the govern-
ment. This was no new topic; the Emperor Nicholas I. had already
begun to plan the Emancipation, and it is probable that it would
have taken place long before it did, had it not been for this very
conspiracy. From the point of view of the government, the move-
ment was naturally dangerous, especially in view of what was taking
place in Europe at that epoch. Dostoevsky bore himself critically
toward the socialistic writings and doctrines, maintaining that in
their own Russian system of workingmen's guilds with reciprocal


## p. 4783 (#579) ###########################################

FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4783
bonds there existed surer and more normal foundations than in all
the dreams of Saint-Simon and all his school. He did not even visit
very frequently the circle to which he particularly belonged, and was
rarely at the house of Petrashevsky, whom many personally disliked.
(
But on one occasion, as he was a good reader, he was asked to
read aloud Byelinsky's famous letter to Gogol, which was regarded.
as a victorious manifest of "Western" (i. e. , of socialistic) views.
This, technically, was propagating revolution, and was the chief
charge against him when the catastrophe happened, and he, together
with over thirty other "Petrashevtzi," was arrested on April 23d
(May 5th), 1849. In the Peter-Paul Fortress prison, where he was
kept for eight months pending trial, Dostoevsky wrote The Little
Hero,' two or three unimportant works having appeared since 'Poor
People. ' At last he, with several others, was condemned to death
and led out for execution. The history of that day, and the analysis
of his sensations and emotions, are to be found in several of his
books: 'Crime and Punishment,' The Idiot,' 'The Karamazoff Broth-
ers. At the last moment it was announced to them that the Em-
peror had commuted their sentence to exile in varying degrees, and
they were taken to Siberia. Alexei Pleshtcheeff, then twenty-three
years of age, the man who sent Byelinsky's letter to Dostoevsky, was
banished for a short term of years to the disciplinary brigade in
Orenburg; and when I saw him in St. Petersburg forty years later,
I was able to form a faint idea of what Dostoevsky's popularity must
have been, by the way in which he, -a man of much less talent, origi-
nality, and personal power, - was surrounded, even in church, by
adoring throngs of young people. Dostoevsky's sentence was "four
years at forced labor in prison; after that, to serve as a common
soldier"; but he did not lose his nobility and his civil rights, being
the first noble to retain them under such circumstances.
The story of what he did and suffered during his imprisonment is
to be found in his Notes from the House of the Dead,' where,
under the disguise of a man sentenced to ten years' labor for the
murder of his wife, he gives us a startling, faithful, but in some
respects a consoling picture of life in a Siberian prison. His own
judgment as to his exile was, "The government only defended itself;"
and when people said to him, "How unjust your exile was! " he
replied, even with irritation, "No, it was just. The people them-
selves would have condemned us. " Moreover, he did not like to give
benefit readings in later years from his 'Notes from the House of the
Dead,' lest he might be thought to complain. Besides, this catas-
trophe was the making of him, by his own confession; he had be-
come a confirmed hypochondriac, with a host of imaginary afflictions
and ills, and had this affair not saved him from himself he said that


## p. 4784 (#580) ###########################################

4784
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
he "should have gone mad. " It seems certain, from the testimony
of his friend and physician, that he was already subject to the epi-
leptic fits which he himself was wont to attribute to his imprison-
ment; and which certainly increased in severity as the years went
on, until they occurred once a month or oftener, in consequence of
overwork and excessive nervous strain. In his novel The Idiot,'
whose hero is an epileptic, he has made a psychological study of his
sensations before and after such fits, and elsewhere he makes allu-
sions to them.
After serving in the ranks and being promoted officer when he
had finished his term of imprisonment, he returned to Russia in 1859,
and lived first at Tver; afterward, when permitted, in St. Petersburg.
The history of his first marriage — which took place in Siberia, to
the widow of a friend-is told with tolerable accuracy in his 'Humbled
and Insulted,' which also contains a description of his early strug-
gles and the composition of 'Poor People,' the hero who narrates
the tale of his love and sacrifice being himself. Like that hero, he
tried to facilitate his future wife's marriage to another man. He
was married to his second wife, by whom he had four children, in
1867, and to her he owed much happiness and material comfort. It
will be seen that much is to be learned concerning our author from
his own novels, though it would hardly be safe to write a biography
from them alone. Even in Crime and Punishment,' his greatest
work in a general way, he reproduces events of his own life, medita-
tions, wonderfully accurate descriptions of the third-rate quarter of
the town in which he lived after his return from Siberia, while en-
gaged on some of his numerous newspaper and magazine enterprises.
This journalistic turn of mind, combined in nearly equal measures
with the literary talent, produced several singular effects.
It ren-
dered his periodical Diary of a Writer' the most enormously popu-
lar publication of the day, and a success when previous ventures had
failed, though it consisted entirely of his own views on current topics
of interest, literary questions, and whatever came into his head. On
his novels it had a rather disintegrating effect. Most of them are of
great length, are full of digressions from the point, and there is often
a lack of finish about them which extends not only to the minor
characters but to the style in general. In fact, his style is neither
jewel-like in its brilliancy, as is Turgénieff's, nor has it the elegance,
broken by carelessness, of Tolstoy's. But it was popular, remarkably
well adapted to the class of society which it was his province to
depict, and though diffuse, it is not possible to omit any of the long
psychological analyses, or dreams, or series of ratiocinations, without
injuring the web of the story and the moral, as chain armor is spoiled
by the rupture of a link. This indeed is one of the great difficulties


## p. 4785 (#581) ###########################################

FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4785
which the foreigner encounters in an attempt to study Dostoevsky:
the translators have been daunted by his prolixity, and have often
cut his works down to a mere skeleton of the original. Moreover,
he deals with a sort of Russian society which it is hard for non-
Russians to grasp, and he has no skill whatever in presenting aristo-
cratic people or society, to which foreigners have become accustomed
in the works of his great contemporaries Turgénieff and Tolstoy;
while he never, despite all his genuine admiration for the peasants
and keen sympathy with them, attempts any purely peasant tales
like Turgénieff's 'Notes of a Sportsman' or Tolstoy's 'Tales for the
People. ' Naturally, this is but one reason the more why he should
be studied. His types of hero, and of feminine character, are pecul-
iar to himself. Perhaps the best way to arrive at his ideal — and at
his own character, plus a certain irritability and tendency to sus-
picion of which his friends speak-is to scrutinize the pictures of
Prince Myshkin (The Idiot'), Ivan (Humbled and Insulted'), and
Alyosha (The Karamazoff Brothers'). Pure, delicate both physically
and morally, as Dostoevsky himself is described by those who knew
him best; devout, gentle, intensely sympathetic, strongly masculine
yet with a large admixture of the feminine element-such are these
three; such is also, in his way, Raskolnikoff ('Crime and Punishment').
His feminine characters are the precise counterparts of these in many
respects, but are often also quixotic even to boldness and wrong-
headedness, like Aglaya (The Idiot'), or to shame, like Sonia (Crime
and Punishment'), and the heroine of 'Humbled and Insulted. ' But
Dostoevsky could not sympathize with and consequently could not
draw an aristocrat; his frequently recurring type of the dissolute
petty noble or rich merchant is frequently brutal; and his unclassed
women, though possibly quite as true to life as these men, are pain-
ful in their callousness and recklessness. His earliest work, 'Poor
People,' written in the form of letters, is worthy of all the praises
which have been bestowed upon it, simple as is the story of the
poverty-stricken clerk who is almost too humble to draw his breath;
who pleads that one must wear a coat and boots which do not show
the bare feet, during the severe Russian winter, merely because pub-
lic opinion forces one thereto; and who shares his rare pence with a
distant but equally needy relative who is in a difficult position. As
a compact, subtle psychological study, his 'Crime and Punishment'
cannot be overrated, repulsive as it is in parts. The poor student
who kills the aged usurer with intent to rob, after prolonged argu-
ment with himself that great geniuses, like Napoleon I. and the like,
are justified in committing any crime, and that he has a right to
relieve his poverty; and who eventually surrenders himself to the
authorities and accepts his exile as moral salvation,-is one of the
VIII-300


## p. 4786 (#582) ###########################################

4786
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOÉVSKY
strongest in Russian literature, though wrong-headed and easily
swayed, like all the author's characters.
In June 1880 Dostoevsky made a speech at the unveiling of
Pushkin's monument in Moscow, which completely overshadowed the
speeches of Turgénieff and Aksakoff, and gave rise to what was
probably the most extraordinary literary ovation ever seen in Russia.
By that time he had become the object of pilgrimages, on the part
of the young especially, to a degree which no other Russian author
has ever experienced, and the recipient of confidences, both personal
and written, which pressed heavily on his time and strength. That
ovation has never been surpassed, save by the astonishing concourse
at his funeral. He died of a lesion of the brain on January 28th
(February 8th), 1881. Thousands followed his coffin for miles, but
there was no "demonstration," as that word is understood in Russia.
Nevertheless it was a demonstration in an unexpected way, since all
classes of society, even those which had not seemed closely interested
or sympathetic, now joined in the tribute of respect, which amounted
to loving enthusiasm.
The works which I have mentioned are the most important,
though he wrote also 'The Stripling' and numerous shorter stories.
His own characterization of his work, when reproached with its
occasional lack of continuity and finish, was that his aim was to
make his point, and the exigencies of money and time under which
he labored were to blame for the defects which, with his keen literary
judgment, he perceived quite as clearly as did his critics. If that
point be borne in mind, it will help the reader to appreciate his lit-
erary-journalistic style, and to pardon shortcomings for the sake of
the pearls of principle and psychology which can be fished up from
the profound depths of his voluminous tomes, and of his analysis.
The gospel which Dostoevsky consistently preached, from the begin-
ning of his career to the end, was love, self-sacrifice even to self-
effacement. That was and is the secret of his power, even over
those who did not follow his precepts.
Isabel 7. Hapgood
давее э
Пардонов


## p. 4787 (#583) ###########################################

FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOÉVSKY
4787
FROM 'POOR PEOPLE'
P
LETTER FROM VARVARA DOBROSYELOFF TO MAKAR DYEVUSHKIN
OKROVSKY was a poor, very poor young man; his health did
not permit of his attending regularly to his studies, and so
it was only by way of custom that we called him a student.
He lived modestly, peaceably, quietly, so that we could not even
hear him from our room. He was very queer in appearance;
he walked so awkwardly, bowed so uncouthly, spoke in such a
peculiar manner, that at first I could not look at him without
laughing. Moreover, he was of an irritable character, was con-
stantly getting angry, flew into a rage at the slightest trifle,
shouted at us, complained of us, and often went off to his own
room in a fit of wrath without finishing our lesson. He had a
great many books, all of them expensive, rare books.
He gave
lessons somewhere else also, received some remuneration, and
just as soon as he had a little money, he went off and bought
more books.
――――――
In time I learned to understand him better. He was the
kindest, the most worthy man, the best man I ever met. My
mother respected him highly. Later on, he became my best
friend after my mother, of course.
From time to time a little old man made his appearance at
our house—a dirty, badly dressed, small, gray-haired, sluggish,
awkward old fellow; in short, he was peculiar to the last degree.
At first sight one would have thought that he felt ashamed of
something, that his conscience smote him for something. He
writhed and twisted constantly; he had such tricks of manner
and ways of shrugging his shoulders, that one would not have
been far wrong in assuming that he was a little crazy. He
would come and stand close to the glazed door in the vestibule,
and not dare to enter. As soon as one of us, Sasha or I or one
of the servants whom he knew to be kindly disposed toward
him, passed that way, he would begin to wave his hands, and
beckon us to him, and make signs; and only when we nodded to
him or called to him,- the signal agreed upon, that there was no
stranger in the house and that he might enter when he pleased,
-only then would the old man softly open the door, with a joy-
ous smile, rubbing his hands together with delight, and betake
himself to Pokrovsky's room. He was his father.


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4788
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOÉVSKY
Afterward I learned in detail the story of this poor old man.
Once upon a time he had been in the government service some-
where or other, but he had not the slightest capacity, and his
place in the service was the lowest and most insignificant of all.
When his first wife died (the mother of the student Pokrovsky),
he took it into his head to marry again, and wedded a woman
from the petty-merchant class. Under the rule of this new wife,
everything was at sixes and sevens in his house; there was no
living with her; she drew a tight rein over everybody. Student
Pokrovsky was a boy at that time, ten years of age.
His step-
mother hated him. But fate was kind to little Pokrovsky.
Bykoff, a landed proprietor, who was acquainted with Pokrovsky
the father and had formerly been his benefactor, took the child
under his protection and placed him in a school. He took an
interest in him because he had known his dead mother, whom
Anna Feodorovna had befriended while she was still a girl, and
who had married her off to Pokrovsky.
From school young
Pokrovsky entered a gymnasium, and then the University, but
his impaired health prevented his continuing his studies there.
Mr. Bykoff introduced him to Anna Feodorovna, recommended
him to her, and in this way young Pokrovsky had been taken
into the house as a boarder, on condition that he should teach
Sasha all that was necessary.
But old Pokrovsky fell into the lowest dissipation through
grief at his wife's harshness, and was almost always in a state of
drunkenness. His wife beat him, drove him into the kitchen to
live, and brought matters to such a point that at last he got
used to being beaten and ill-treated, and made no complaint.
He was still far from being an old man, but his evil habits had
nearly destroyed his mind. The only sign in him of noble
human sentiments was his boundless love for his son. It was
said that young Pokrovsky was as like his dead mother as two
drops of water to each other. The old man could talk of noth-
ing but his son, and came to see him regularly twice a week.
He dared not come more frequently, because young Pokrovsky
could not endure his father's visits. Of all his failings, the first
and greatest, without a doubt, was his lack of respect for his
father. However, the old man certainly was at times the most
intolerable creature in the world. In the first place he was
dreadfully inquisitive; in the second, by his chatter and ques-
tions he interfered with his son's occupations; and lastly, he


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FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4789
sometimes presented himself in a state of intoxication. The son
broke the father, in a degree, of his faults,—of his inquisitive-
ness and his chattering; and ultimately brought about such a
condition of affairs that the latter listened to all he said as to
an oracle, and dared not open his mouth without his permission.
There were no bounds to the old man's admiration of and
delight in his Petinka, as he called his son. When he came to
visit him he almost always wore a rather anxious, timid expres-
sion, probably on account of his uncertainty as to how his son
would receive him, and generally could not make up his mind
for a long time to go in; and if I happened to be present, he
would question me for twenty minutes: How was Petinka?
Was he well? In what mood was he, and was not he occupied
in something important? What, precisely, was he doing? Was
he writing, or engaged in meditation? When I had sufficiently
encouraged and soothed him, the old man would at last make up
his mind to enter, and would open the door very, very softly,
very, very cautiously, and stick his head in first; and if he saw
that his son was not angry, and nodded to him, he would step
gently into the room, take off his little coat, and his hat, which
was always crumpled, full of holes and with broken rims, and
hang them on a hook, doing everything very softly, and inaudi-
bly. Then he would seat himself cautiously on a chair and
never take his eyes from his son, but would watch his every
movement in his desire to divine the state of his Petinka's
temper. If the son was not exactly in the right mood, and the
old man detected it, he instantly rose from his seat and ex-
plained, "I only ran in for a minute, Petinka. I have been
walking a good ways, and happened to be passing by, so I came
in to rest myself. " And then silently he took his poor little
coat and his wretched little hat, opened the door again very
softly, and went away, forcing a smile in order to suppress the
grief which was seething up in his soul, and not betray it to his
son.
But when the son received his father well, the old man was
beside himself with joy. His satisfaction shone forth in his face,
in his gestures, in his movements. If his son addressed a re-
mark to him, the old man always rose a little from his chair, and
replied softly, cringingly, almost reverently, and always made an
effort to employ the most select, that is to say, the most ridicu-
lous expressions. But he had not the gift of language; he always


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FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOÉVSKY
4790
became confused and frightened, so that he did not know what
to do with his hands, or what to do with his person, and went
on, for a long time afterward, whispering his answer to himself,
as though desirous of recovering his composure. But if he suc-
ceeded in making a good answer, the old man gained courage,
set his waistcoat to rights, and his cravat and his coat, and
assumed an air of personal dignity. Sometimes his courage rose
to such a point, his daring reached such a height, that he rose
gently from his chair, went up to the shelf of books, took down
a book. He did all this with an air of artificial indifference and
coolness, as though he could always handle his son's books in
this proprietary manner, as though his son's caresses were no
rarity to him. But I once happened to witness the old man's
fright when Pokrovsky asked him not to touch his books. He
became confused, hurriedly replaced the book upside down, then
tried to put it right, turned it round and set it wrong side to,
leaves out, smiled, reddened, and did not know how to expiate
his crime.
One day old Pokrovsky came in to see us. He chatted with
us for a long time, was unusually cheerful, alert, talkative; he
laughed and joked after his fashion, and at last revealed the
secret of his raptures, and announced to us that his Petinka's
birthday fell precisely a week later, and that it was his intention.
to call upon his son, without fail, on that day; that he would
don a new waistcoat, and that his wife had promised to buy him
some new boots. In short, the old man was perfectly happy,
and chattered about everything that came into his head.
His birthday! That birthday gave me no peace, either day
or night. I made up my mind faithfully to remind Pokrovsky of
my friendship, and to make him a present. But what? At last
I hit upon the idea of giving him some books. I knew that he
wished to own the complete works of Pushkin, in the latest edi-
tion. I had thirty rubles of my own, earned by my handiwork.
I had put this money aside for a new gown. I immediately
sent old Matryona, our cook, to inquire the price of a complete
set. Alas! The price of the eleven volumes, together with the
expenses of binding, would be sixty rubles at the very least. I
thought and thought, but could not tell what to do.
I did not
wish to ask my mother. Of course she would have helped me;
but, in that case every one in the house would have known
about our gift; moreover, the gift would have been converted


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FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOÉVSKY
4791
into an expression of gratitude, a payment for Pokrovsky's labors
for the whole year. My desire was to make the present pri-
vately, unknown to any one. And for his toilsome lessons to me
I wished to remain forever indebted to him, without any pay-
ment whatever. At last I devised an escape from my predica-
ment. I knew that one could often buy at half price from the
old booksellers in the Gostinny Dvor, if one bargained well, little
used and almost entirely new books. I made up my mind to go
to the Gostinny Dvor myself. So it came about; the very next
morning both Anna Feodorovna and we needed something.
Mamma was not feeling well, and Anna Feodorovna, quite op-
portunely, had a fit of laziness, so all the errands were turned
over to me, and I set out with Matryona.
To my delight I soon found a Pushkin, and in a very hand-
some binding. I began to bargain for it. How I enjoyed it!
But alas! My entire capital consisted of thirty rubles in paper,
and the merchant would not consent to accept less than ten
rubles in silver. At last I began to entreat him, and I begged
and begged, until eventually he yielded. But he only took off
two rubles and a half, and swore that he had done so only for
my sake, because I was such a nice young lady, and that he
would not have come down in his price for any one else. Two
rubles and a half were still lacking! I was ready to cry with
vexation. But the most unexpected circumstance came to my
rescue in my grief. Not far from me, at another stall, I caught
sight of old Pokrovsky. Four or five old booksellers were clus-
tered about him; he had completely lost his wits, and they had
thoroughly bewildered him. Each one was offering him his
wares, and what stuff they were offering, and what all was he
not ready to buy! I stepped up to him and asked him what
he was doing there? The old man was very glad to see me;
he loved me unboundedly,- no less than his Petinka, perhaps.
"Why, I am buying a few little books, Varvara Alexievna," he
replied; "I am buying some books for Petinka. " I asked him if
he had much money? "See here," and the poor old man took
out all his money, which was wrapped up in a dirty scrap of
newspaper; "here's a half-ruble, and a twenty-kopek piece,
and twenty kopeks in copper coins. " I immediately dragged
him off to my bookseller. "Here are eleven books, which cost
altogether thirty-two rubles and a half; I have thirty; put your
two rubles and a half with mine, and we will buy all these


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FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOÉVSKY
4792
books and give them to him in partnership. " The old man was
quite beside himself with joy, and the bookseller loaded him
down with our common library.
The next day the old man came to see his son, sat with him
a little while, then came to us and sat down beside me with a
very comical air of mystery. Every moment he grew more sad
and uneasy; at last he could hold out no longer.
"Listen, Varvara Alexievna," he began timidly, in a low voice:
"do you know what, Varvara Alexievna? " The old man was
dreadfully embarrassed. "You see, when his birthday comes, do
you take ten of those little books and give them to him your-
self, that is to say, from yourself, on your own behalf; then I
will take the eleventh and give it from myself, for my share.
So you see, you will have something to give, and I shall have
something to give; we shall both have something to give. "
――――
I was awfully sorry for the old man. I did not take long to
think it over. The old man watched me anxiously. "Listen to
me, Zakhar Petrovitch," I said: "de you give him all. ”.
« How
all? Do you mean all the books? "—"Yes, certainly, all the
books. "—" And from myself? " - "From
"From yourself. ".
yourself. " "From
myself alone—that is, in my own name? » - "Yes, in your own
name. " I thought I was expressing myself with sufficient clear-
ness, but the old man could not understand me for a long time.
"You see," he explained to me at last, "I sometimes indulge
myself, Varvara Alexievna,-that is to say, I wish to state to you
that I nearly always indulge myself,-I do that which is not
right,— that is, you know, when it is cold out of doors, and when
various unpleasant things happen at times, or when I feel sad
for any reason, or something bad happens,— then sometimes, I
do not restrain myself, and I drink too much.
This is very
disagreeable to Petrushka, you see, Varvara Alexievna; he gets
angry, and he scolds me and reads me moral lectures. So now
I should like to show him by my gift that I have reformed, and
am beginning to conduct myself well; that I have been saving
up my money to buy a book, saving for a long time, because I
hardly ever have any money, except when it happens that
Petrushka gives me some now and then. He knows that. Con-
sequently, he will see what use I have made of my money, and
he will know that I have done this for his sake alone. "
-
"Well, yes," he said, after thinking it over, "yes! That will
be very fine, that would be very fine indeed,-only, what are


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FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4793
«<
anything.
you going to do, Varvara Alexievna? " "Why, I shall not give
What! " cried the old man almost in terror; « so
you will not give Petinka anything, so you do not wish to give
him anything? " He was alarmed.
He was alarmed. At that moment it seemed
as though he were ready to relinquish his own suggestions, so
that I might have something to give his son. He was a kind-
hearted old man! I explained that I would be glad to give
something, only I did not wish to deprive him of the pleasure.
-
―――
On the festive day he made his appearance at precisely eleven
o'clock, straight from the mass, in his dress coat, decently
patched, and actually in a new waistcoat and new boots. We
were all sitting in the hall with Anna Feodorovna, and drinking
coffee (it was Sunday). The old man began, I believe, by saying
that Pushkin was a good poet; then he lost the thread of his
discourse and got confused, and suddenly jumped to the assertion.
that a man must behave well, and that if he does not behave
himself well, then it simply means that he indulges himself; he
even cited several terrible examples of intemperance, and wound
up by stating that for some time past he had been entirely at
reformed character, and that he now behaved with perfect pro-
priety. That even earlier he had recognized the justice of his
son's exhortations, and had treasured them all in his heart, and
had actually begun to be sober. In proof of which he now pre-
sented these books, which had been purchased with money which
he had been hoarding up for a long time.
I could not refrain from tears and laughter, as I listened to
the poor old fellow; he knew well how to lie when the occasion
demanded! The books were taken to Pokrovsky's room and
placed on the shelf. Pokrovsky immediately divined the truth.
Pokrovsky fell ill, two months after the events which I have
described above. During those two months he had striven inces-
santly for the means of existence, for up to that time he had
never had a settled position. Like all consumptives, he bade
farewell only with his last breath to the hope of a very long
life. .
Anna Feodorovna herself made all the arrange-
ments about the funeral. She bought the very plainest sort of a
coffin, and hired a truckman. In order to repay herself for her


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FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOEVSKY
4794
expenditure, Anna Feodorovna took possession of all the dead
man's books and effects. The old man wrangled with her, raised
an uproar, snatched from her as many books as possible, stuffed
all his pockets with them, thrust them into his hat and wherever
he could, carried them about with him all the three days which
preceded the funeral, and did not even part with them when the
time came to go to the church. During all those days he was
like a man stunned, who has lost his memory, and he kept fuss-
ing about near the coffin with a certain strange anxiety; now he
adjusted the paper band upon the dead man's brow, now he lighted
and snuffed the candles. It was evident that he could not fix
his thoughts in orderly manner on anything. Neither my mother
nor Anna Feodorovna went to the funeral services in the church.
My mother was ill, but Anna Feodorovna quarreled with old
Pokrovsky just as she was all ready to start, and so stayed away.
The old man and I were the only persons present. A sort of
fear came over me during the services-like the presentiment
of something which was about to happen. I could hardly stand
out the ceremony in church. At last they put the lid on the
coffin and nailed it down, placed it on the cart and drove away.
I accompanied it only to the end of the street. The truckman
drove at a trot. The old man ran after the cart, weeping aloud;
the sound of his crying was broken and shaken by his running.
The poor man lost his hat and did not stop to pick it up. His
head was wet with the rain; the sleet lashed and cut his face.
The old man did not appear to feel the bad weather, but ran
weeping from one side of the cart to the other. The skirts of
his shabby old coat waved in the wind like wings.
Books pro-
truded from every one of his pockets; in his hands was a huge
book, which he held tightly clutched. The passers-by removed
their hats and made the sign of the cross. Some halted and
stared in amazement at the poor old man. Every moment the
books kept falling out of his pockets into the mud. People
stopped him, and pointed out his losses to him; he picked them
up, and set out again in pursuit of the coffin. At the corner of
the street an old beggar woman joined herself to him to escort
the coffin. At last the cart turned the corner, and disappeared
from my eyes.
I went home. I flung myself, in dreadful grief,
on my mother's bosom.


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LETTER FROM MAKAR DYEVUSHKIN TO VARVARA ALEXIEVNA DOBROS-
YELOFF
――――
My dear Varvara Alexievna!
I am quite beside myself as I write this. I am utterly upset
by a most terrible occurrence. My head is whirling. I feel as
though everything were turning in dizzy circles round about me.
Ah, my dearest, what a thing I have to tell you now! We had
not even a presentiment of such a thing. No, I don't believe
that I did not have a presentiment I foresaw it all. My heart
forewarned me of this whole thing! I even dreamed of some-
thing like it not long ago.
This is what has happened! I will relate it to you without
attempting fine style, and as the Lord shall put it into my soul.
I went to the office to-day. When I arrived, I sat down and
began to write. But you must know, my dear, that I wrote yes-
terday also. Well, yesterday Timofei Ivan'itch came to me, and
was pleased to give me a personal order. "Here's a document
that is much needed," says he, "and we're in a hurry for it.
Copy it, Makar Alexievitch," says he, "as quickly and as neatly
and carefully as possible: it must be handed in for signature to-
day. " I must explain to you, my angel, that I was not quite
myself yesterday, and didn't wish to look at anything; such sad-
ness and depression had fallen upon me! My heart was cold, my
mind was dark; you filled all my memory, and incessantly, my
poor darling. Well, so I set to work on the copy; I wrote clearly
and well, only, I don't know exactly how to describe it to you,
whether the Evil One himself tangled me up, or whether it was
decreed by some mysterious fate, or simply whether it was bound
to happen so, but I omitted a whole line, and the sense was utterly
ruined. The Lord only knows what sense there was-simply
none whatever. They were late with the papers yesterday, so
they only gave this document to his Excellency for signature this
morning. To-day I presented myself at the usual hour, as though
nothing at all were the matter, and set myself down alongside
Emelyan Ivanovitch.
―――
SEPTEMBER 9TH.
I must tell you, my dear, that lately I have become twice as
shamefaced as before, and more mortified. Of late I have ceased
to look at any one. As soon as any one's chair squeaks, I am
more dead than alive.
So to-day I crept in, slipped humbly into


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4796
FEODOR MIKHAILOVITCH DOSTOÉVSKY
my seat, and sat there all doubled up, so that Efim Akimovitch
(he's the greatest tease in the world) remarked in such a way
that all could hear him, "Why do you sit so like a y-y-y, Makar
Alexievitch ? " Then he made such a grimace that everybody
round him and me split with laughter, and of course at my
expense. They kept it up interminably! I drooped my ears and
screwed up my eyes, and sat there motionless.
That's my way;
they stop the quicker. All at once I heard a noise, a running
and a tumult; I heard - did my ears deceive me?