White nights, and other stories

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  WHITE NIGHTS
  AND OTHER STORIES

  THE NOVELS OF
  FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY
  VOLUME X




  WHITE NIGHTS

  AND OTHER STORIES BY
  FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

  FROM THE RUSSIAN BY
  CONSTANCE GARNETT


  NEW YORK
  THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
  1918


  _Printed in Great Britain_




         CONTENTS


                                            PAGE

  WHITE NIGHTS                                1

  NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND--
    PART I. UNDERGROUND                      50
    PART II. A PROPOS OF THE WET SNOW        81

  A FAINT HEART                             156

  A CHRISTMAS TREE AND A WEDDING            200

  POLZUNKOV                                 208

  A LITTLE HERO                             223

  MR. PROHARTCHIN                           258




WHITE NIGHTS

A SENTIMENTAL STORY FROM THE DIARY OF A DREAMER


FIRST NIGHT

It was a wonderful night, such a night as is only possible when we are
young, dear reader. The sky was so starry, so bright that, looking at
it, one could not help asking oneself whether ill-humoured and
capricious people could live under such a sky. That is a youthful
question too, dear reader, very youthful, but may the Lord put it more
frequently into your heart!... Speaking of capricious and ill-humoured
people, I cannot help recalling my moral condition all that day. From
early morning I had been oppressed by a strange despondency. It suddenly
seemed to me that I was lonely, that every one was forsaking me and
going away from me. Of course, any one is entitled to ask who "every
one" was. For though I had been living almost eight years in Petersburg
I had hardly an acquaintance. But what did I want with acquaintances? I
was acquainted with all Petersburg as it was; that was why I felt as
though they were all deserting me when all Petersburg packed up and went
to its summer villa. I felt afraid of being left alone, and for three
whole days I wandered about the town in profound dejection, not knowing
what to do with myself. Whether I walked in the Nevsky, went to the
Gardens or sauntered on the embankment, there was not one face of those
I had been accustomed to meet at the same time and place all the year.
They, of course, do not know me, but I know them. I know them
intimately, I have almost made a study of their faces, and am delighted
when they are gay, and downcast when they are under a cloud. I have
almost struck up a friendship with one old man whom I meet every blessed
day, at the same hour in Fontanka. Such a grave, pensive countenance; he
is always whispering to himself and brandishing his left arm, while in
his right hand he holds a long gnarled stick with a gold knob. He even
notices me and takes a warm interest in me. If I happen not to be at a
certain time in the same spot in Fontanka, I am certain he feels
disappointed. That is how it is that we almost bow to each other,
especially when we are both in good humour. The other day, when we had
not seen each other for two days and met on the third, we were actually
touching our hats, but, realizing in time, dropped our hands and passed
each other with a look of interest.

I know the houses too. As I walk along they seem to run forward in the
streets to look out at me from every window, and almost to say:
"Good-morning! How do you do? I am quite well, thank God, and I am to
have a new storey in May," or, "How are you? I am being redecorated
to-morrow;" or, "I was almost burnt down and had such a fright," and so
on. I have my favourites among them, some are dear friends; one of them
intends to be treated by the architect this summer. I shall go every day
on purpose to see that the operation is not a failure. God forbid! But I
shall never forget an incident with a very pretty little house of a
light pink colour. It was such a charming little brick house, it looked
so hospitably at me, and so proudly at its ungainly neighbours, that my
heart rejoiced whenever I happened to pass it. Suddenly last week I
walked along the street, and when I looked at my friend I heard a
plaintive, "They are painting me yellow!" The villains! The barbarians!
They had spared nothing, neither columns, nor cornices, and my poor
little friend was as yellow as a canary. It almost made me bilious. And
to this day I have not had the courage to visit my poor disfigured
friend, painted the colour of the Celestial Empire.

So now you understand, reader, in what sense I am acquainted with all
Petersburg.

I have mentioned already that I had felt worried for three whole days
before I guessed the cause of my uneasiness. And I felt ill at ease in
the street--this one had gone and that one had gone, and what had become
of the other?--and at home I did not feel like myself either.