Produced by Jan-Fabian Humann, Carol Ann Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) 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. À 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