THE COMPLETE NOVELS OF DOSTOYEVSKY. Fyodor Dostoyevsky

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       Fyodor Dostoyevsky

      THE COMPLETE NOVELS OF DOSTOYEVSKY

      Crime and Punishment, The Idiot, The Brothers Karamazov, Demons, The House of the Dead…

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      2017 OK Publishing

      ISBN 978-80-272-0127-3

      Table of Contents

       NOVELS AND NOVELLAS:

       Poor Folk

       The Double

       The Landlady

       Netochka Nezvanova

       Uncle's Dream

       The Village of Stepanchikovo

       The Insulted and Humiliated

       The House of the Dead

       Notes from Underground

       Crime and Punishment

       The Gambler

       The Idiot

       The Permanent Husband

       The Possessed (Demons)

       The Raw Youth (The Adolescent)

       The Brothers Karamazov

       ESSAYS ON DOSTOYEVSKY:

       A SURVEY OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE by Isabel Florence Hapgood

       DOSTOYEVSKY AND HIS MESSAGE TO THE WORLD by Zinaida Vengerova

       ON RUSSIAN NOVELISTS by William Lyon Phelps

       Extract from ‘AN OUTLINE OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE’ by Maurice Baring

       BIOGRAPHY:

       Fyodor Dostoyevsky, A Study by Aimée Dostoyevsky

      NOVELS AND NOVELLAS:

       Table of Contents

      Poor Folk

       Table of Contents

      April 8th

      MY DEAREST BARBARA ALEXIEVNA, — How happy I was last night — how immeasurably, how impossibly happy! That was because for once in your life you had relented so far as to obey my wishes. At about eight o’clock I awoke from sleep (you know, my beloved one, that I always like to sleep for a short hour after my work is done) — I awoke, I say, and, lighting a candle, prepared my paper to write, and trimmed my pen. Then suddenly, for some reason or another, I raised my eyes — and felt my very heart leap within me! For you had understood what I wanted, you had understood what my heart was craving for. Yes, I perceived that a corner of the curtain in your window had been looped up and fastened to the cornice as I had suggested should be done; and it seemed to me that your dear face was glimmering at the window, and that you were looking at me from out of the darkness of your room, and that you were thinking of me. Yet how vexed I felt that I could not distinguish your sweet face clearly! For there was a time when you and I could see one another without any difficulty at all. Ah me, but old age is not always a blessing, my beloved one! At this very moment everything is standing awry to my eyes, for a man needs only to work late overnight in his writing of something or other for, in the morning, his eyes to be red, and the tears to be gushing from them in a way that makes him ashamed to be seen before strangers. However, I was able to picture to myself your beaming smile, my angel — your kind, bright smile; and in my heart there lurked just such a feeling as on the occasion when I first kissed you, my little Barbara. Do you remember that, my darling? Yet somehow you seemed to be threatening me with your tiny finger. Was it so, little wanton? You must write and tell me about it in your next letter.

      But what think you of the plan of the curtain, Barbara? It is a charming one, is it not? No matter whether I be at work, or about to retire to rest, or just awaking from sleep, it enables me to know that you are thinking of me, and remembering me — that you are both well and happy. Then when you lower the curtain, it means that it is time that I, Makar Alexievitch, should go to bed; and when again you raise the curtain, it means that you are saying to me, “Good morning,” and asking me how I am, and whether I have slept well. “As for myself,” adds the curtain, “I am altogether in good health and spirits, glory be to God!” Yes, my heart’s delight, you see how easy a plan it was to devise, and how much writing it will save us! It is a clever plan, is it not? And it was my own invention, too! Am I not cunning in such matters, Barbara Alexievna?

      Well, next let me tell you, dearest, that last night I slept better and more soundly than I had ever hoped to do, and that I am the more delighted at the fact in that, as you know, I had just settled into a new lodging — a circumstance only too apt to keep one from sleeping! This morning, too, I arose (joyous and full of love) at cockcrow. How good seemed everything at that hour, my darling! When I opened my window I could see the sun shining, and hear the birds singing, and smell the air laden with scents of spring. In short, all nature was awaking to life again. Everything was in consonance with my mood; everything seemed fair and spring-like. Moreover, I had a fancy that I should fare well today. But my whole thoughts were bent upon you. “Surely,” thought I, “we mortals who dwell in pain and sorrow might with reason envy the birds of heaven which know not either!” And my other thoughts were similar to these. In short, I gave myself up to fantastic comparisons. A little book which I have says the same kind of thing in a variety of ways. For instance, it says that one may have many, many fancies, my Barbara — that as soon as the spring comes on, one’s thoughts become uniformly pleasant