but that a Dostoevski should be among them. Here is a delicate,
sensitive man of genius, in bad health, with a highly organised
nervous system, with a wonderful imagination, condemned to live for
years in slimy misery, with creatures far worse than the beasts of the
field. Indeed, some of the most beautiful parts of the story are where
Dostoevski turns from the men to the prison dog and the prison horse,
and there finds true friendship. His kindness to the neglected dog and
the latter's surprise and subsequent devotion make a deep impression.
The greatness of Dostoevski's heart is shown in the fact that although
his comrades were detestable characters, he did not hate them. His
calm account of their unblushing knavery is entirely free from either
vindictive malice or superior contempt. He loved them because they
were buried alive, he loved them because of their wretchedness, with a
love as far removed from condescension as it was from secret
admiration of their bold wickedness. There was about these men no
charm of personality and no glamour of desperate crime. The delightful
thing about Dostoevski's attitude is that it was so perfect an
exemplification of true Christianity. No pride, no scorn, no envy. He
regarded them as his brothers, and one feels that not one of the men
would ever have turned to Dostoevski for sympathy and encouragement
without meeting an instant and warm response. That prison was a great
training-school for Dostoevski's genius, and instead of casting a
black shadow over his subsequent life, it furnished him with the
necessary light and heat to produce a succession of great novels.

Their production was, however, irregular, and at intervals he
continued to write and publish books of no importance. One of his
poorest stories is called "Memoirs of the Cellarage," or, as the
French translation has it, "L'Esprit Souterrain." The two parts of the
story contain two curious types of women. The hero is the regulation