Notes from the Underground

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  VI

  ... Somewhere behind a screen a clock began wheezing, as thoughoppressed by something, as though someone were strangling it. After anunnaturally prolonged wheezing there followed a shrill, nasty, and asit were unexpectedly rapid, chime--as though someone were suddenlyjumping forward. It struck two. I woke up, though I had indeed notbeen asleep but lying half-conscious.

  It was almost completely dark in the narrow, cramped, low-pitched room,cumbered up with an enormous wardrobe and piles of cardboard boxes andall sorts of frippery and litter. The candle end that had been burningon the table was going out and gave a faint flicker from time to time.In a few minutes there would be complete darkness.

  I was not long in coming to myself; everything came back to my mind atonce, without an effort, as though it had been in ambush to pounce uponme again. And, indeed, even while I was unconscious a point seemedcontinually to remain in my memory unforgotten, and round it my dreamsmoved drearily. But strange to say, everything that had happened to mein that day seemed to me now, on waking, to be in the far, far awaypast, as though I had long, long ago lived all that down.

  My head was full of fumes. Something seemed to be hovering over me,rousing me, exciting me, and making me restless. Misery and spiteseemed surging up in me again and seeking an outlet. Suddenly I sawbeside me two wide open eyes scrutinising me curiously andpersistently. The look in those eyes was coldly detached, sullen, as itwere utterly remote; it weighed upon me.

  A grim idea came into my brain and passed all over my body, as ahorrible sensation, such as one feels when one goes into a damp andmouldy cellar. There was something unnatural in those two eyes,beginning to look at me only now. I recalled, too, that during thosetwo hours I had not said a single word to this creature, and had, infact, considered it utterly superfluous; in fact, the silence had forsome reason gratified me. Now I suddenly realised vividly the hideousidea--revolting as a spider--of vice, which, without love, grossly andshamelessly begins with that in which true love finds its consummation.For a long time we gazed at each other like that, but she did not dropher eyes before mine and her expression did not change, so that at lastI felt uncomfortable.

  "What is your name?" I asked abruptly, to put an end to it.

  "Liza," she answered almost in a whisper, but somehow far fromgraciously, and she turned her eyes away.

  I was silent.

  "What weather! The snow ... it's disgusting!" I said, almost tomyself, putting my arm under my head despondently, and gazing at theceiling.

  She made no answer. This was horrible.

  "Have you always lived in Petersburg?" I asked a minute later, almostangrily, turning my head slightly towards her.

  "No."

  "Where do you come from?"

  "From Riga," she answered reluctantly.

  "Are you a German?"

  "No, Russian."

  "Have you been here long?"

  "Where?"

  "In this house?"

  "A fortnight."

  She spoke more and more jerkily. The candle went out; I could nolonger distinguish her face.

  "Have you a father and mother?"

  "Yes ... no ... I have."

  "Where are they?"

  "There ... in Riga."

  "What are they?"

  "Oh, nothing."

  "Nothing? Why, what class are they?"

  "Tradespeople."

  "Have you always lived with them?"

  "Yes."

  "How old are you?"

  "Twenty."

  "Why did you leave them?"

  "Oh, for no reason."

  That answer meant "Let me alone; I feel sick, sad."

  We were silent.

  God knows why I did not go away. I felt myself more and more sick anddreary. The images of the previous day began of themselves, apart frommy will, flitting through my memory in confusion. I suddenly recalledsomething I had seen that morning when, full of anxious thoughts, I washurrying to the office.

  "I saw them carrying a coffin out yesterday and they nearly droppedit," I suddenly said aloud, not that I desired to open theconversation, but as it were by accident.

  "A coffin?"

  "Yes, in the Haymarket; they were bringing it up out of a cellar."

  "From a cellar?"

  "Not from a cellar, but a basement. Oh, you know ... down below ...from a house of ill-fame. It was filthy all round ... Egg-shells,litter ... a stench. It was loathsome."

  Silence.

  "A nasty day to be buried," I began, simply to avoid being silent.

  "Nasty, in what way?"

  "The snow, the wet." (I yawned.)

  "It makes no difference," she said suddenly, after a brief silence.

  "No, it's horrid." (I yawned again). "The gravediggers must havesworn at getting drenched by the snow. And there must have been waterin the grave."

  "Why water in the grave?" she asked, with a sort of curiosity, butspeaking even more harshly and abruptly than before.

  I suddenly began to feel provoked.

  "Why, there must have been water at the bottom a foot deep. You can'tdig a dry grave in Volkovo Cemetery."

  "Why?"

  "Why? Why, the place is waterlogged. It's a regular marsh. So theybury them in water. I've seen it myself ... many times."

  (I had never seen it once, indeed I had never been in Volkovo, and hadonly heard stories of it.)

  "Do you mean to say, you don't mind how you die?"

  "But why should I die?" she answered, as though defending herself.

  "Why, some day you will die, and you will die just the same as thatdead woman. She was ... a girl like you. She died of consumption."

  "A wench would have died in hospital ..." (She knows all about italready: she said "wench," not "girl.")

  "She was in debt to her madam," I retorted, more and more provoked bythe discussion; "and went on earning money for her up to the end,though she was in consumption. Some sledge-drivers standing by weretalking about her to some soldiers and telling them so. No doubt theyknew her. They were laughing. They were going to meet in a pot-houseto drink to her memory."

  A great deal of this was my invention. Silence followed, profoundsilence. She did not stir.

  "And is it better to die in a hospital?"

  "Isn't it just the same? Besides, why should I die?" she addedirritably.

  "If not now, a little later."

  "Why a little later?"

  "Why, indeed? Now you are young, pretty, fresh, you fetch a highprice. But after another year of this life you will be verydifferent--you will go off."

  "In a year?"

  "Anyway, in a year you will be worth less," I continued malignantly."You will go from here to something lower, another house; a yearlater--to a third, lower and lower, and in seven years you will come toa basement in the Haymarket. That will be if you were lucky. But itwould be much worse if you got some disease, consumption, say ... andcaught a chill, or something or other. It's not easy to get over anillness in your way of life. If you catch anything you may not get ridof it. And so you would die."

  "Oh, well, then I shall die," she answered, quite vindictively, and shemade a quick movement.

  "But one is sorry."

  "Sorry for whom?"

  "Sorry for life." Silence.

  "Have you been engaged to be married? Eh?"

  "What's that to you?"

  "Oh, I am not cross-examining you. It's nothing to me. Why are you socross? Of course you may have had your own troubles. What is it tome? It's simply that I felt sorry."

  "Sorry for whom?"

  "Sorry for you."

  "No need," she whispered hardly audibly, and again made a faintmovement.

  That incensed me at once. What! I was so gentle with her, and she....

  "Why, do you think that you are on the right path?"

  "I don't think anything."

  "That's what's wrong, that you don't think. Realise it while the
re isstill time. There still is time. You are still young, good-looking;you might love, be married, be happy...."

  "Not all married women are happy," she snapped out in the rude abrupttone she had used at first.

  "Not all, of course, but anyway it is much better than the life here.Infinitely better. Besides, with love one can live even withouthappiness. Even in sorrow life is sweet; life is sweet, however onelives. But here what is there but ... foulness? Phew!"

  I turned away with disgust; I was no longer reasoning coldly. I beganto feel myself what I was saying and warmed to the subject. I wasalready longing to expound the cherished ideas I had brooded over in mycorner. Something suddenly flared up in me. An object had appearedbefore me.

  "Never mind my being here, I am not an example for you. I am, perhaps,worse than you are. I was drunk when I came here, though," I hastened,however, to say in self-defence. "Besides, a man is no example for awoman. It's a different thing. I may degrade and defile myself, but Iam not anyone's slave. I come and go, and that's an end of it. Ishake it off, and I am a different man. But you are a slave from thestart. Yes, a slave! You give up everything, your whole freedom. Ifyou want to break your chains afterwards, you won't be able to; youwill be more and more fast in the snares. It is an accursed bondage.I know it. I won't speak of anything else, maybe you won't understand,but tell me: no doubt you are in debt to your madam? There, you see,"I added, though she made no answer, but only listened in silence,entirely absorbed, "that's a bondage for you! You will never buy yourfreedom. They will see to that. It's like selling your soul to thedevil.... And besides ... perhaps, I too, am just as unlucky--how doyou know--and wallow in the mud on purpose, out of misery? You know,men take to drink from grief; well, maybe I am here from grief. Come,tell me, what is there good here? Here you and I ... came together ...just now and did not say one word to one another all the time, and itwas only afterwards you began staring at me like a wild creature, and Iat you. Is that loving? Is that how one human being should meetanother? It's hideous, that's what it is!"

  "Yes!" she assented sharply and hurriedly.

  I was positively astounded by the promptitude of this "Yes." So thesame thought may have been straying through her mind when she wasstaring at me just before. So she, too, was capable of certainthoughts? "Damn it all, this was interesting, this was a point oflikeness!" I thought, almost rubbing my hands. And indeed it's easy toturn a young soul like that!

  It was the exercise of my power that attracted me most.

  She turned her head nearer to me, and it seemed to me in the darknessthat she propped herself on her arm. Perhaps she was scrutinising me.How I regretted that I could not see her eyes. I heard her deepbreathing.

  "Why have you come here?" I asked her, with a note of authority alreadyin my voice.

  "Oh, I don't know."

  "But how nice it would be to be living in your father's house! It'swarm and free; you have a home of your own."

  "But what if it's worse than this?"

  "I must take the right tone," flashed through my mind. "I may not getfar with sentimentality." But it was only a momentary thought. Iswear she really did interest me. Besides, I was exhausted and moody.And cunning so easily goes hand-in-hand with feeling.

  "Who denies it!" I hastened to answer. "Anything may happen. I amconvinced that someone has wronged you, and that you are more sinnedagainst than sinning. Of course, I know nothing of your story, butit's not likely a girl like you has come here of her own inclination...."

  "A girl like me?" she whispered, hardly audibly; but I heard it.

  Damn it all, I was flattering her. That was horrid. But perhaps itwas a good thing.... She was silent.

  "See, Liza, I will tell you about myself. If I had had a home fromchildhood, I shouldn't be what I am now. I often think that. Howeverbad it may be at home, anyway they are your father and mother, and notenemies, strangers. Once a year at least, they'll show their love ofyou. Anyway, you know you are at home. I grew up without a home; andperhaps that's why I've turned so ... unfeeling."

  I waited again. "Perhaps she doesn't understand," I thought, "and,indeed, it is absurd--it's moralising."

  "If I were a father and had a daughter, I believe I should love mydaughter more than my sons, really," I began indirectly, as thoughtalking of something else, to distract her attention. I must confess Iblushed.

  "Why so?" she asked.

  Ah! so she was listening!

  "I don't know, Liza. I knew a father who was a stern, austere man, butused to go down on his knees to his daughter, used to kiss her hands,her feet, he couldn't make enough of her, really. When she danced atparties he used to stand for five hours at a stretch, gazing at her.He was mad over her: I understand that! She would fall asleep tired atnight, and he would wake to kiss her in her sleep and make the sign ofthe cross over her. He would go about in a dirty old coat, he wasstingy to everyone else, but would spend his last penny for her, givingher expensive presents, and it was his greatest delight when she waspleased with what he gave her. Fathers always love their daughters morethan the mothers do. Some girls live happily at home! And I believe Ishould never let my daughters marry."

  "What next?" she said, with a faint smile.

  "I should be jealous, I really should. To think that she should kissanyone else! That she should love a stranger more than her father!It's painful to imagine it. Of course, that's all nonsense, of courseevery father would be reasonable at last. But I believe before Ishould let her marry, I should worry myself to death; I should findfault with all her suitors. But I should end by letting her marry whomshe herself loved. The one whom the daughter loves always seems theworst to the father, you know. That is always so. So many familytroubles come from that."

  "Some are glad to sell their daughters, rather than marrying themhonourably."

  Ah, so that was it!

  "Such a thing, Liza, happens in those accursed families in which thereis neither love nor God," I retorted warmly, "and where there is nolove, there is no sense either. There are such families, it's true,but I am not speaking of them. You must have seen wickedness in yourown family, if you talk like that. Truly, you must have been unlucky.H'm! ... that sort of thing mostly comes about through poverty."

  "And is it any better with the gentry? Even among the poor, honestpeople who live happily?"

  "H'm ... yes. Perhaps. Another thing, Liza, man is fond of reckoningup his troubles, but does not count his joys. If he counted them up ashe ought, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided forit. And what if all goes well with the family, if the blessing of Godis upon it, if the husband is a good one, loves you, cherishes you,never leaves you! There is happiness in such a family! Even sometimesthere is happiness in the midst of sorrow; and indeed sorrow iseverywhere. If you marry YOU WILL FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF. But think ofthe first years of married life with one you love: what happiness, whathappiness there sometimes is in it! And indeed it's the ordinary thing.In those early days even quarrels with one's husband end happily. Somewomen get up quarrels with their husbands just because they love them.Indeed, I knew a woman like that: she seemed to say that because sheloved him, she would torment him and make him feel it. You know thatyou may torment a man on purpose through love. Women are particularlygiven to that, thinking to themselves 'I will love him so, I will makeso much of him afterwards, that it's no sin to torment him a littlenow.' And all in the house rejoice in the sight of you, and you arehappy and gay and peaceful and honourable.... Then there are somewomen who are jealous. If he went off anywhere--I knew one such woman,she couldn't restrain herself, but would jump up at night and run offon the sly to find out where he was, whether he was with some otherwoman. That's a pity. And the woman knows herself it's wrong, and herheart fails her and she suffers, but she loves--it's all through love.And how sweet it is to make up after quarrels, to own herself in thewrong or to forgive him! And they both are so happy all at once
--asthough they had met anew, been married over again; as though their lovehad begun afresh. And no one, no one should know what passes betweenhusband and wife if they love one another. And whatever quarrels theremay be between them they ought not to call in their own mother to judgebetween them and tell tales of one another. They are their own judges.Love is a holy mystery and ought to be hidden from all other eyes,whatever happens. That makes it holier and better. They respect oneanother more, and much is built on respect. And if once there has beenlove, if they have been married for love, why should love pass away?Surely one can keep it! It is rare that one cannot keep it. And if thehusband is kind and straightforward, why should not love last? Thefirst phase of married love will pass, it is true, but then there willcome a love that is better still. Then there will be the union ofsouls, they will have everything in common, there will be no secretsbetween them. And once they have children, the most difficult timeswill seem to them happy, so long as there is love and courage. Eventoil will be a joy, you may deny yourself bread for your children andeven that will be a joy, They will love you for it afterwards; so youare laying by for your future. As the children grow up you feel thatyou are an example, a support for them; that even after you die yourchildren will always keep your thoughts and feelings, because they havereceived them from you, they will take on your semblance and likeness.So you see this is a great duty. How can it fail to draw the father andmother nearer? People say it's a trial to have children. Who saysthat? It is heavenly happiness! Are you fond of little children,Liza? I am awfully fond of them. You know--a little rosy baby boy atyour bosom, and what husband's heart is not touched, seeing his wifenursing his child! A plump little rosy baby, sprawling and snuggling,chubby little hands and feet, clean tiny little nails, so tiny that itmakes one laugh to look at them; eyes that look as if they understandeverything. And while it sucks it clutches at your bosom with itslittle hand, plays. When its father comes up, the child tears itselfaway from the bosom, flings itself back, looks at its father, laughs,as though it were fearfully funny, and falls to sucking again. Or itwill bite its mother's breast when its little teeth are coming, whileit looks sideways at her with its little eyes as though to say, 'Look,I am biting!' Is not all that happiness when they are the threetogether, husband, wife and child? One can forgive a great deal forthe sake of such moments. Yes, Liza, one must first learn to liveoneself before one blames others!"

  "It's by pictures, pictures like that one must get at you," I thoughtto myself, though I did speak with real feeling, and all at once Iflushed crimson. "What if she were suddenly to burst out laughing,what should I do then?" That idea drove me to fury. Towards the end ofmy speech I really was excited, and now my vanity was somehow wounded.The silence continued. I almost nudged her.

  "Why are you--" she began and stopped. But I understood: there was aquiver of something different in her voice, not abrupt, harsh andunyielding as before, but something soft and shamefaced, so shamefacedthat I suddenly felt ashamed and guilty.

  "What?" I asked, with tender curiosity.

  "Why, you..."

  "What?"

  "Why, you ... speak somehow like a book," she said, and again there wasa note of irony in her voice.

  That remark sent a pang to my heart. It was not what I was expecting.

  I did not understand that she was hiding her feelings under irony, thatthis is usually the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people whenthe privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded, and thattheir pride makes them refuse to surrender till the last moment andshrink from giving expression to their feelings before you. I ought tohave guessed the truth from the timidity with which she had repeatedlyapproached her sarcasm, only bringing herself to utter it at last withan effort. But I did not guess, and an evil feeling took possession ofme.

  "Wait a bit!" I thought.