Notes from Underground

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

  I was then already beginning to experience the influxes of those pleasures of which I have already spoken in the first chapter. And after the story with the officer, I began to be drawn there even more strongly: it was on Nevsky that I met him most often, it was there that I admired him. He, too, used mostly to go there on holidays. And he, too, swerved out of the way before generals and persons of dignity, and he, too, slipped among them like an eel, but those of our sort, or even better than our sort, he simply crushed; he went straight at them as if there were an empty space before him, and on no occasion gave way to them. I reveled in my spite as I watched him, and… each time spitefully swerved out of his way. It tormented me that even in the street I simply could not be on an equal footing with him. "Why is it invariably you who swerve first?" I kept nagging at myself, in furious hysterics, sometimes waking up, say, between two and three in the morning. "Why precisely you and not him? There's no law that says so, it's not written anywhere? Well, then let it be equal, as is usual when men of delicacy meet: he can yield by half, and you by half, and so you will pass mutually respecting each other." But it was never so, and I still kept swerving, and he did not even notice that I was giving way to him. And then a most astonishing thought suddenly dawned on me. "What," I fancied, "what if I meet him and… do not step aside? Deliberately do not step aside, even if I have to shove him - eh? how will that be?" This bold thought gradually took such possession of me that it left me no peace. I dreamed of it ceaselessly, terribly, and deliberately went more often to Nevsky, to picture more clearly how I was going to do it when I did it. I was in ecstasy. The intention seemed more and more probable and possible to me. "Not really to shove him, of course," I thought, growing kinder in advance from joy, "but just so, simply not to give way, to bump into him, not so very painfully, but so, shoulder against shoulder, only as much as decency warrants, so that exactly as much as he bumps me, I will also bump him." I was, finally, completely decided on it. But the preparations took a very long time. First of all, at the time of the performance one had to look as decent as possible and see to one's attire. "Just in case, supposing, for example, that a public incident should get started (and the public there is superflu: 7 a countess goes, Prince D. goes, the whole of literature goes), one must be well dressed; this makes an impression, and in some sense will put us straightaway on an equal footing in the eyes of high society." To that end I asked for an advance on my salary and bought black gloves and a respectable hat at Churkin's. Black gloves, it seemed to me, were both more imposing and more in bon ton than the lemon-colored ones I had first presumed upon. "The color is too striking, it's too much as if a man wants to make a show of himself," and I did not buy the lemon ones. I had long since prepared a good shirt with white bone cufflinks; but I was very much detained by the overcoat. My overcoat was not bad at all in itself, it kept me warm; but it had a quilted cotton lining, and the collar was of raccoon, which constituted the height of lackeydom. It was necessary to change the collar at any cost and to acquire a beaver, something like what officers wore. For that I began walking about the Gostiny Arcade 8 and, after several attempts, set my sights on a cheap German beaver. Though these German beavers wear out very quickly and acquire a most measly look, at first, when new, they even seem quite decent; and I needed it for only one time. I asked the price: it was expensive even so. After some solid reflection I decided to sell my raccoon collar. And the remaining and for me quite considerable sum I decided to try and borrow from Anton Antonych Setochkin, my department chief, a humble but serious and positive man, who never loaned money to anyone, but to whom I had once, on entering my post, been especially recommended by the important personage who had placed me in the civil service. I was terribly tormented. To ask money of Anton Antonych seemed to me monstrous and shameful. I even could not sleep for two or three nights, but then I generally slept little at that time, I was in a fever; my heart was somehow vaguely sinking, or else it would suddenly start to go thump, thump, thump!… Anton Antonych was surprised at first, then he frowned, then he considered, and after all he gave me the loan, having me sign an authorization for him to take the loaned money from my salary two weeks later. Thus everything was finally ready; a handsome beaver came to reign in place of the squalid raccoon, and I gradually began to get down to business. I really couldn't just decide it straight off, slapdash; the thing had to be handled deftly, precisely gradually. But I confess that after many attempts I even began to despair: we simply couldn't bump into each other - and that was that! After all my preparations, after all my premeditations - it would look as if we were just about to bump into each other, and then - again I'd give way, and he would pass by without noticing me. I even recited prayers while approaching him, asking God to inspire me with decisiveness. One time I was already quite decided, but it just ended with me getting under his feet, because in the very last moment, at some two inches away, I lost courage. He quite calmly walked over me, and I bounced aside like a ball. That night I was sick again, feverish and delirious. And suddenly everything ended in the best possible way. The night before, I resolved finally not to carry out my pernicious intention and to let it all go for naught, and with that purpose in mind I went to Nevsky for the last time, just to see how I was going to let it all go for naught. Suddenly, within three steps of my enemy, I unexpectedly decided, closed my eyes, and - we bumped solidly shoulder against shoulder! I did not yield an inch and passed by on a perfectly equal footing! He did not even look back and pretended not to notice: but he only pretended, I'm sure of that. To this day I'm sure of it! Of course, I got the worst of if, he was stronger, but that was not the point. The point was that I had achieved my purpose, preserved my dignity, yielded not a step, and placed myself publicly on an equal social footing with him. I returned home perfectly avenged for everything. I was in ecstasy. I exulted and sang Italian arias. Of course, I shall not describe for you what happened to me three days later; if you've read my first chapter, "Underground," you can guess for yourself. The officer was later transferred somewhere. I haven't seen him for about fourteen years. What's the sweet fellow doing these days? Whom does he crush now?

  II

  Then the spell of my little debauch would end, and I'd feel terribly nauseated. Repentance would come; I'd drive it away - it was too nauseating. Little by little, however, I'd get used to that as well. I could get used to anything - that is, not really get used, but somehow voluntarily consent to endure it. But I had a way out that reconciled everything, which was - to escape into "everything beautiful and lofty," in dreams, of course. I dreamed terribly, I would dream for three months at a time, shrinking into my corner, and, believe me, in those moments I bore no resemblance to that gentleman who, in the panic of his chicken heart, sat sewing a German beaver to the collar of his overcoat. I'd suddenly become a hero. And then I wouldn't even have let the six-foot lieutenant into the house. I couldn't even imagine him then. What these dreams of mine were, and how I could have been satisfied with them - is difficult to say now, but I was satisfied with them then. However, I'm somewhat satisfied with them even now. Dreams came to me with a particular sweetness and intensity after a little debauch, they came with repentance and tears, with curses and raptures. There were moments of such positive ecstasy, such happiness, that not even the slightest mockery could be felt in me, by God. There was faith, hope, love. This was the point, that I blindly believed then that through some miracle, some external circumstance, all this would suddenly extend, expand; suddenly a horizon of appropriate activity would present itself, beneficent, beautiful, and, above all, quite ready-made (precisely what, I never knew, but above all - quite ready-made), and thus I would suddenly step forth under God's heaven all but on a white horse and wreathed in laurels. A secondary role was incomprehensible to me, and that was precisely why, in reality, I so calmly filled the last. Either hero or mud, there was no in between. And that is what ruined me, because in the mud I comforted myself with being a hero at other times, and the hero covered up the mu
d: for an ordinary man, say, it's shameful to be muddied, but a hero is too lofty to be completely muddied, consequently one can get muddied. Remarkably, these influxes of "everything beautiful and lofty" used also to come to me during my little debauches; precisely when I was already at the very bottom, they would come just so, in isolated little flashes, as if reminding me of themselves, and yet they did not annihilate the little debauch with their appearance; on the contrary, it was as if they enlivened it by contrast and came in exactly the proportion required for a good sauce. The sauce here consisted of contradiction and suffering, of tormenting inner analysis, and all these torments and tormenticules lent my little debauch a certain piquancy, even meaning - in short, they fully fulfilled the function of a good sauce. All this was even not without some profundity. For how could I consent to a simple, direct, trite little scrivener's debauch, and to bearing all this mud on myself! What was there in it that could seduce me and lure me into the streets at night? No, sir, I had a noble loophole for everything…

  But how much love, Lord, how much love I used to experience in those dreams of mine, in those "escapes into everything beautiful and lofty": though it was a fantastical love, though it was never in reality applied to anything human, there was so much of it, this love, that afterwards, in reality, I never even felt any need to apply it; that would have been an unnecessary luxury. Everything, however, would always end most happily with a lazy and rapturous transition to art - that is, to beautiful forms of being, quite ready-made, highly stolen from poets and novelists, and adapted to every possible service or demand. For example, I triumph over everyone; everyone, of course, is lying in the dust and is forced to voluntarily acknowledge all my perfections, and I forgive them all. I fall in love, being a famous poet and court chamberlain; I receive countless millions and donate them immediately to mankind, and then and there confess before all the world my disgraces, which, of course, are not mere disgraces, but contain an exceeding amount of "the beautiful and lofty," of something manfredian. 9 Everyone weeps and kisses me (what blockheads they'd be otherwise), and I go barefoot and hungry to preach new ideas and crush the retrograde under Austerlitz. 10 Then a march is struck up, an amnesty is granted, the Pope agrees to quit Rome for Brazil; then a ball is given for the whole of Italy at the Villa Borghese, now on the shores of Lake Como, since Lake Como has been transferred to Rome especially for the occasion; 11 then comes a scene in the bushes, etc., etc. - you know what I mean! You will say that it's vulgar and vile to bring all this out into the marketplace now, after so many raptures and tears, to which I myself have confessed. But why is it vile, sirs? Can you really think I'm ashamed of it all, or that it's all any stupider than whatever there may have been, gentlemen, in your own lives? And besides, believe me, some of it was by no means badly composed… And not all of it took place on Lake Como. However, you're right, it is indeed both vulgar and vile. And what's vilest is that I've now started justifying myself before you. And viler still is that I'm now making this remark. Enough, however; otherwise there will be no end to it: things will go on getting viler and viler… I was simply incapable of dreaming for longer than three months at a time, and would begin to feel an irresistible need to rush into society. To rush into society in my case meant to go and visit my department chief, Anton Antonych Setochkin. He was the only permanent acquaintance I've had in my whole life, and I'm even surprised now at this circumstance. But even to him I used to go only when such a spell came, and my dreams had reached such happiness that I needed, instantly and infallibly, to embrace people and the whole of mankind - for which I had to have available at least one really existing person. Anton Antonych, however, could be visited only on Tuesdays (his day), and consequently my need to embrace the whole of mankind always had to be adusted to a Tuesday. This Anton Antonych was located near the Five Corners, 12 on the fourth floor and in four little rooms, low-ceilinged, each one smaller than the last, of a most economical and yellow appearance. There were two daughters and their aunt, who poured tea. The daughters, one thirteen and the other fourteen, were both pug-nosed, and I was terribly abashed before them, because they constantly whispered together and giggled. The host usually sat in the study, on a leather sofa in front of the desk, along with some gray-haired guest, an official from our own or even some other department. I never saw more than two or three guests there, always the same ones. They talked about excise, negotiations in the Senate, salaries, promotions, His Excellency, ways of making oneself liked, and so on and so forth. I had patience enough to sit it out by these people like a fool for four hours on end, listening to them, myself not daring or knowing how to begin talking with them about anything. My mind would grow dull, I'd break into a sweat several times, paralysis hovered over me; but this was good and beneficial. On returning home, I'd put off for a while my desire to embrace the whole of mankind.

  I had, however, another acquaintance as it were - Simonov, a former schoolfellow. No doubt there were many of my schoolfellows in Petersburg, but I did not associate with them, and had even stopped nodding to them in the street. I perhaps got myself transferred to another department so as not to be together with them and to cut off all at once the whole of that hateful childhood of mine. Curses on that school, on those terrible years of penal servitude! In short, I parted ways with my fellows as soon as I was set free. There were two or three people left whom I still greeted when we met. Among them was Simonov, who had not been distinguished for anything in our school, was quiet and equable, but in whom I distinguished a certain independence of character and even honesty. I do not even think he was so very narrow-minded. I had once had some rather bright moments with him, but they did not last long and somehow suddenly clouded over. These recollections were apparently burdensome for him, and it seemed he kept being afraid I would lapse into the former tone. I suspected that he found me quite disgusting, but I kept going to him all the same, having no sure assurance of it.

  And so once, on a Thursday, unable to endure my solitude, and knowing that on Thursdays Anton Antonych's door was closed, I remembered about Simonov. On the way up to his fourth-floor apartment, I was precisely thinking that I was a burden to this gentleman and that I shouldn't be going to him. But since in the end such considerations, as if by design, always egged me on further into some ambiguous situation, I did go in. It was almost a year since I had last seen Simonov.

  III

  I found two more of my schoolfellows with him. They were apparently discussing an important matter. None of them paid more than the slightest attention to my coming, which was even strange, because I hadn't seen them for years. Obviously they regarded me as something like a quite ordinary fly. I had not been treated that way even at school, though everyone there hated me. Of course, I understood that they must scorn me now for the unsuccess of my career in the service and for my having gone too much to seed, walking around badly dressed, and so on - which in their eyes constituted a signboard of my incapacity and slight significance. But all the same I did not expect such a degree of scorn. Simonov was even surprised at my coming. Before, too, he had always seemed surprised at my coming. All this took me aback; I sat down in some anguish and began to listen to what they were talking about.