Notes From Underground Page #17

"Notes from Underground" is a novella by Fyodor Dostoevsky, first published in 1864. The work is presented as the ramblings of an unnamed narrator, often referred to as the Underground Man, who is a retired, bitter civil servant living in St. Petersburg. The Underground Man reflects on his life, society, and the nature of free will, revealing deep existential angst and a profound disdain for the rationalism of his time. The novella explores themes of isolation, morality, and the complexities of human psychology, ultimately challenging the reader to confront the contradictions of modern existence. Its innovative structure and intense philosophical inquiries have made it a cornerstone of existential literature.

• Novel

								

he was a pretty and playful boy. He was always bad at his lessons and
got worse and worse as he went on; however, he left with a good
certificate, as he had powerful interest. During his last year at school
he came in for an estate of two hundred serfs, and as almost all of us
were poor he took up a swaggering tone among us. He was vulgar in the
extreme, but at the same time he was a good-natured fellow, even in his
swaggering. In spite of superficial, fantastic and sham notions of
honour and dignity, all but very few of us positively grovelled before
Zverkov, and the more so the more he swaggered. And it was not from any
interested motive that they grovelled, but simply because he had been
favoured by the gifts of nature. Moreover, it was, as it were, an
accepted idea among us that Zverkov was a specialist in regard to tact
and the social graces. This last fact particularly infuriated me. I
hated the abrupt self-confident tone of his voice, his admiration of his
own witticisms, which were often frightfully stupid, though he was bold
in his language; I hated his handsome, but stupid face (for which I
would, however, have gladly exchanged my intelligent one), and the
free-and-easy military manners in fashion in the "'forties." I hated the
way in which he used to talk of his future conquests of women (he did
not venture to begin his attack upon women until he had the epaulettes
of an officer, and was looking forward to them with impatience), and
boasted of the duels he would constantly be fighting. I remember how I,
invariably so taciturn, suddenly fastened upon Zverkov, when one day
talking at a leisure moment with his schoolfellows of his future
relations with the fair sex, and growing as sportive as a puppy in the
sun, he all at once declared that he would not leave a single village
girl on his estate unnoticed, that that was his droit de seigneur, and
that if the peasants dared to protest he would have them all flogged and
double the tax on them, the bearded rascals. Our servile rabble
applauded, but I attacked him, not from compassion for the girls and
their fathers, but simply because they were applauding such an insect. I
got the better of him on that occasion, but though Zverkov was stupid he
was lively and impudent, and so laughed it off, and in such a way that
my victory was not really complete: the laugh was on his side. He got
the better of me on several occasions afterwards, but without malice,
jestingly, casually. I remained angrily and contemptuously silent and
would not answer him. When we left school he made advances to me; I did
not rebuff them, for I was flattered, but we soon parted and quite
naturally. Afterwards I heard of his barrack-room success as a
lieutenant, and of the fast life he was leading. Then there came other
rumours--of his successes in the service. By then he had taken to
cutting me in the street, and I suspected that he was afraid of
compromising himself by greeting a personage as insignificant as me. I
saw him once in the theatre, in the third tier of boxes. By then he was
wearing shoulder-straps. He was twisting and twirling about,
ingratiating himself with the daughters of an ancient General. In three
years he had gone off considerably, though he was still rather handsome
and adroit. One could see that by the time he was thirty he would be
corpulent. So it was to this Zverkov that my schoolfellows were going to
give a dinner on his departure. They had kept up with him for those
three years, though privately they did not consider themselves on an
equal footing with him, I am convinced of that.

Of Simonov's two visitors, one was Ferfitchkin, a Russianized German--a
little fellow with the face of a monkey, a blockhead who was always
deriding every one, a very bitter enemy of mine from our days in the
lower forms--a vulgar, impudent, swaggering fellow, who affected a most
sensitive feeling of personal honour, though, of course, he was a
wretched little coward at heart. He was one of those worshippers of
Zverkov who made up to the latter from interested motives, and often
borrowed money from him. Simonov's other visitor, Trudolyubov, was a
person in no way remarkable--a tall young fellow, in the army, with a
cold face, fairly honest, though he worshipped success of every sort,
and was only capable of thinking of promotion. He was some sort of
distant relation of Zverkov's, and this, foolish as it seems, gave him a
certain importance among us. He always thought me of no consequence
whatever; his behaviour to me, though not quite courteous, was
tolerable.

"Well, with seven roubles each," said Trudolyubov, "twenty-one roubles
between the three of us, we ought to be able to get a good dinner.
Zverkov, of course, won't pay."

"Of course not, since we are inviting him," Simonov decided.

"Can you imagine," Ferfitchkin interrupted hotly and conceitedly, like
some insolent flunkey boasting of his master the General's decorations,
"can you imagine that Zverkov will let us pay alone? He will accept from
delicacy, but he will order half a dozen bottles of champagne."

"Do we want half a dozen for the four of us?" observed Trudolyubov,
taking notice only of the half dozen.

"So the three of us, with Zverkov for the fourth, twenty-one roubles, at
the Hôtel de Paris at five o'clock to-morrow," Simonov, who had been
asked to make the arrangements, concluded finally.

"How twenty-one roubles?" I asked in some agitation, with a show of
being offended; "if you count me it will not be twenty-one, but
twenty-eight roubles."

It seemed to me that to invite myself so suddenly and unexpectedly would
be positively graceful, and that they would all be conquered at once and
would look at me with respect.

"Do you want to join, too?" Simonov observed, with no appearance of
pleasure, seeming to avoid looking at me. He knew me through and
through.

It infuriated me that he knew me so thoroughly.

"Why not? I am an old schoolfellow of his, too, I believe, and I must
own I feel hurt that you have left me out," I said, boiling over again.

"And where were we to find you?" Ferfitchkin put in roughly.

"You never were on good terms with Zverkov," Trudolyubov added,
frowning.

But I had already clutched at the idea and would not give it up.

"It seems to me that no one has a right to form an opinion upon that," I
retorted in a shaking voice, as though something tremendous had
happened. "Perhaps that is just my reason for wishing it now, that I
have not always been on good terms with him."

"Oh, there's no making you out ... with these refinements," Trudolyubov
jeered.

"We'll put your name down," Simonov decided, addressing me. "To-morrow
at five o'clock at the Hôtel de Paris."

"What about the money?" Ferfitchkin began in an undertone, indicating me
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