f 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 beginning 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.

[Illustration: Signature (Isabel F. Hapgood)]

FROM 'POOR PEOPLE'

LETTER FROM VARVARA DOBROSYELOFF TO MAKAR DYEVUSHKIN

Pokrovsky 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
constantly 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