Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (556 page)

2

Let us, however, look into the nonsense too.

I have described my two experiments.  In Petersburg, as the reader knows, I made a third.  I went to the auction and at one stroke made a profit of seven roubles ninety-five kopecks.  This of course was not a real experiment, it was only by way of sport and diversion.  I simply wanted to filch a moment from the future, and to test how I should go and behave.  I had decided even at the very first, in Moscow, to put off really beginning till I was perfectly free.  I fully realized that I must, for instance, finish my work at school.  (The university, as the reader knows already, I sacrificed.)  There is no disputing that I went to Petersburg with concealed anger in my heart.  No sooner had I left the grammar school and become free for the first time, than I suddenly saw that Versilov’s affairs would distract me from beginning my enterprise for an indefinite period.  But though I was angry I went to Petersburg feeling perfectly serene about my object.

It is true I knew nothing of practical life; but I had been thinking about it for three years and could have no doubt about it.  I had pictured a thousand times over how I should begin.  I should suddenly find myself, as though dropped from the clouds, in one of our two capitals (I pitched on Petersburg or Moscow for my beginning, and by choice Petersburg, to which I gave the preference through certain considerations), perfectly free, not dependent on anyone, in good health, and with a hundred roubles hidden in my pocket, as the capital for my first investment.  Without a hundred roubles it would be impossible to begin, as, without it, even the earliest period of success would be too remote.  Apart from my hundred roubles I should have, as the reader knows already, courage, obstinacy, perseverance, absolute isolation and secrecy.  Isolation was the principal thing.  I greatly disliked the idea of any connection or association with others until the last moment.  Speaking generally I proposed beginning my enterprise alone, that was a sine qua non.  People weigh upon me, and with them I should have been uneasy, and uneasiness would have hindered my success.  Generally speaking, all my life up to now, in all my dreams of how I would behave with people, I always imagined myself being very clever; it was very different in reality — I was always very stupid; and I confess sincerely, with indignation, I always gave myself away and was flustered, and so I resolved to cut people off altogether.  I should gain by it independence, tranquillity of mind and clearness of motive.

In spite of the terrible prices in Petersburg I determined once for all that I should never spend more than fifteen kopecks on food, and I knew I should keep my word.  This question of food I had thought over minutely for a long time past.  I resolved, for instance, sometimes to eat nothing but bread and salt for two days together, and to spend on the third day what I had saved on those two days.  I fancied that this would be better for my health than a perpetual uniform fast on a minimum of fifteen kopecks.  Then I needed a corner, literally a “corner,” solely to sleep the night in and to have a refuge in very bad weather.  I proposed living in the street, and, if necessary, I was ready to sleep in one of the night refuges where they give you a piece of bread and a glass of tea as well as a night’s lodging.  Oh, I should be quite capable of hiding my money so that it should not be stolen in the “corner,” or in the refuge, and should not even be suspected, I’ll answer for that!

“Steal from me?  Why, I’m afraid of stealing myself!”  I once heard a passer-by in the street say gaily.  Of course I only apply to myself the caution and smartness of it, I don’t intend to steal.  What is more, while I was in Moscow, perhaps from the very first day of my “idea,” I resolved that I would not be a pawnbroker or usurer either; there are Jews for that job, and such Russians as have neither intelligence nor character.  Pawnbroking and usury are for the commonplace.

As for clothes, I resolved to have two suits, one for every day and one for best.  When once I had got them I felt sure I should wear them a long time.  I purposely trained myself to wear a suit for two and a half years, and in fact I discovered a secret: for clothes always to look new and not to get shabby they should be brushed as often as possible, five or six times a day.  Brushing does not hurt the cloth.  I speak from knowledge.  What does hurt it is dust and dirt.  Dust is the same thing as stones if you look at it through the microscope, and, however hard a brush is, it is almost the same as fur.  I trained myself to wear my boots evenly.  The secret lies in putting down the whole sole at once, and avoiding treading on the side.  One can train oneself to this in a fortnight, after that the habit is unconscious.  In this way boots last on an average a third as long again.  That is the experience of two years.

Then followed my activity itself.

I started with the hypothesis that I had a hundred roubles.  In Petersburg there are so many auction sales, petty hucksters’ booths and people who want things, that it would be impossible not to sell anything one bought for a little more.  Over the album I had made seven roubles ninety-five kopecks profit on two roubles five kopecks of capital invested.  This immense profit was made without any risk: I could see from his eyes that the purchaser would not back out.  Of course I know quite well that this was only a chance; but it is just such chances I am on the look-out for, that is why I have made up my mind to live in the street.  Well, granted that such a chance is unusual, no matter; my first principle will be to risk nothing, and the second to make every day more than the minimum spent on my subsistence, that the process of accumulation may not be interrupted for a single day.

I shall be told that “all this is a dream, you don’t know the streets, and you’ll be taken in at the first step.”  But I have will and character, and the science of the streets is a science like any other: persistence, attention and capacity can conquer it.  In the grammar school right up to the seventh form I was one of the first; I was very good at mathematics.  Why, can one possibly exaggerate the value of experience and knowledge of the streets to such a fantastic pitch as to predict my failure for certain?  That is only what people say who have never made an experiment in anything, have never begun any sort of life, but have grown stiff in second-hand stagnation.  “One man breaks his nose, so another must break his.”  No, I won’t break mine.  I have character and if I pay attention I can learn anything.  But is it possible to imagine that with constant persistence, with incessant vigilance, and continual calculation and reflection, with perpetual activity and alertness one could fail to find out how to make twenty kopecks to spare every day?  Above all I resolved not to struggle for the maximum profit, but always to keep calm.  As time went on after heaping up one or two thousand I should, of course, naturally rise above second-hand dealing and street trading.  I know, of course, far too little as yet about the stock exchange, about shares, banking and all that sort of thing.  But to make up for that I know, as I know I have five fingers on my hand, that I should learn all the stock exchange and banking business as well as anyone else, and that the subject would turn out to be perfectly simple, because one is brought to it by practice.  What need is there of the wisdom of Solomon so long as one has character; efficiency, skill and knowledge come of themselves.  If only one does not leave off “willing.”

The great thing is to avoid risks, and that can only be done if one has character.  Not long ago in Petersburg I had before me a subscription list of shares in some railway investments; those who succeeded in getting shares made a lot of money.  For some time the shares went up and up.  Well, if one day some one who had not succeeded in getting a share, or was greedy for more, had offered to buy mine at a premium of so much per cent. I should certainly have sold it.  People would have laughed at me, of course, and have said that if I had waited I should have made ten times as much.  Quite so, but my premium is safer, for it’s a bird in the hand while yours is on the bush.  I shall be told that one can’t make much like that; excuse me, that’s your mistake, the mistake of all our Kokorevs, Polyakovs, and Gubonins.  Let me tell you the truth; perseverance and persistence in money making and still more in saving is much more effective than these cent. per cent. profits.

Not long before the French Revolution there was a man called Law in Paris who invented of himself a scheme what was theoretically magnificent but which came utterly to grief in practice afterwards.  All Paris was in excitement.  Law’s shares were bought up at once before allotment.  Money from all parts of Paris poured as from a sack into the house where the shares were subscribed.  But the house was not enough at last, the public thronged the street, people of all callings, all classes, all ages: bourgeois, noblemen, their children, countesses, marquises, prostitutes, were all struggling in one infuriated, half-crazy, rabid mob.  Rank, the prejudices of birth and pride, even honour and good name were all trampled in the same mire; all, even women, were ready to sacrifice anyone to gain a few shares.  The list at last was passed down into the streets, but there was nothing to write on.  Then it was suggested to a hunchback that he should lend his back for the time as a table on which people could sign their names for shares.  The hunchback agreed — one can fancy at what a price.  Some time (a very short time) after, they were all bankrupt, the whole thing went smash, the whole idea was exploded and the shares were worth nothing.  Who got the best of it?  Why, the hunchback, because he did not take shares but louis-d’or in cash.  Well, I am that hunchback!  I had strength of will enough not to eat, and to save seventy-two roubles out of my kopecks; I shall have strength enough to restrain myself and prefer a safe profit to a large one, even when every one around me is carried away by a fever of excitement.  I am trivial only about trifles, not in what is important.  I have often lacked fortitude for enduring little things ever since the inception of my idea, but for enduring big things I shall always have enough.  When in the morning my mother gave me cold coffee before I set out to work, I was angry and rude to her, and yet I was the same person who had lived a whole month on bread and water.

In short not to make money, not to learn how to make money, would be unnatural.  It would be unnatural, too, in spite of incessant and regular saving, unflagging care and mental sobriety, self- control, economy, and growing energy — it would be unnatural, I repeat, to fail to become a millionaire.  How did the beggar make his money if not by fanatical determination and perseverance?  Am I inferior to a beggar?  “And after all, supposing I don’t arrive at anything, suppose my calculation is incorrect, suppose I fall and come to grief; no matter, I shall go on, I shall go on, because I want to.”  That is what I said in Moscow.

I shall be told that there is no “idea” in this, absolutely nothing new.  But I say, and for the last time, that there are an immense number of ideas in it, and a vast amount that is new.

Oh, I foresaw how trivial all objections would be, and that I should be as trivial myself in expounding my “idea”: why, what have I said after all?  I haven’t told a hundredth part of it.  I feel that it is trivial, superficial, crude, and, somehow, too young for my age.

3

I’ve still to answer the questions, “What for?” and “Why?”  Whether it’s moral,” and all the rest of it.  I’ve undertaken to answer them.

I am sad at disappointing the reader straight off, sad and glad too.  Let him know that in my idea there is absolutely no feeling of “revenge,” nothing “Byronic” — no curses, no lamentations over my orphaned state, no tears over my illegitimacy, nothing, nothing of the sort.  In fact, if a romantic lady should chance to come across my autobiography she would certainly turn up her nose.  The whole object of my “idea” is — isolation.  But one can arrive at isolation without straining to become a Rothschild.  What has Rothschild got to do with it?

Why, this.  That besides isolation I want power.

Let me tell the reader, he will perhaps be horrified at the candour of my confession, and in the simplicity of his heart will wonder how the author could help blushing: but my answer is that I’m not writing for publication, and I may not have a reader for ten years, and by that time everything will be so thoroughly past, settled and defined that there will be no need to blush.  And so, if I sometimes in my autobiography appeal to my reader it is simply a form of expression.  My reader is an imaginary figure.

No, it was not being illegitimate, with which I was so taunted at Touchard’s, not my sorrowful childhood, it was not revenge, nor the desire to protest, that was at the bottom of my idea; my character alone was responsible for everything.  At twelve years old, I believe, that is almost at the dawn of real consciousness, I began to dislike my fellow-creatures.  It was not that I disliked them exactly, but that their presence weighed upon me.  I was sometimes in my moments of purest sincerity quite sad that I never could express everything even to my nearest and dearest, that is, I could but will not; for some reason I restrain myself, so that I’m mistrustful, sullen and reserved.  Again, I have noticed one characteristic in myself almost from childhood, that I am too ready to find fault, and given to blaming others.  But this impulse was often followed at once by another which was very irksome to me: I would ask myself whether it were not my fault rather than theirs.  And how often I blamed myself for nothing!  To avoid such doubts I naturally sought solitude.  Besides, I found nothing in the company of others, however much I tried, and I did try.  All the boys of my own age anyway, all my schoolfellows, all, every one of them, turned out to be inferior to me in their ideas.  I don’t recall one single exception.

Yes, I am a gloomy person; I’m always shutting myself up.  I often love to walk out of a room full of people.  I may perhaps do people a kindness, but often I cannot see the slightest reason for doing them a kindness.  People are not such splendid creatures that they are worth taking much trouble about.  Why can’t they approach me openly and directly, why must I always be forced to make the first overtures?