Notes From Underground Page #18

"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

								

to Simonov, but he broke off, for even Simonov was embarrassed.

"That will do," said Trudolyubov, getting up. "If he wants to come so
much, let him."

"But it's a private thing, between us friends," Ferfitchkin said
crossly, as he, too, picked up his hat. "It's not an official
gathering."

"We do not want at all, perhaps...."

They went away. Ferfitchkin did not greet me in any way as he went out,
Trudolyubov barely nodded. Simonov, with whom I was left tête-à-tête,
was in a state of vexation and perplexity, and looked at me queerly. He
did not sit down and did not ask me to.

"H'm ... yes ... to-morrow, then. Will you pay your subscription now? I
just ask so as to know," he muttered in embarrassment.

I flushed crimson, and as I did so I remembered that I had owed Simonov
fifteen roubles for ages--which I had, indeed, never forgotten, though I
had not paid it.

"You will understand, Simonov, that I could have no idea when I came
here.... I am very much vexed that I have forgotten...."

"All right, all right, that doesn't matter. You can pay to-morrow after
the dinner. I simply wanted to know.... Please don't...."

He broke off and began pacing the room still more vexed. As he walked he
began to stamp with his heels.

"Am I keeping you?" I asked, after two minutes of silence.

"Oh!" he said, starting, "that is--to be truthful--yes. I have to go and
see some one ... not far from here," he added in an apologetic voice,
somewhat abashed.

"My goodness, why didn't you say so?" I cried, seizing my cap, with an
astonishingly free-and-easy air, which was the last thing I should have
expected of myself.

"It's close by ... not two paces away," Simonov repeated, accompanying
me to the front door with a fussy air which did not suit him at all. "So
five o'clock, punctually, to-morrow," he called down the stairs after
me. He was very glad to get rid of me. I was in a fury.

"What possessed me, what possessed me to force myself upon them?" I
wondered, grinding my teeth as I strode along the street, "for a
scoundrel, a pig like that Zverkov! Of course, I had better not go; of
course, I must just snap my fingers at them. I am not bound in any way.
I'll send Simonov a note by to-morrow's post...."

But what made me furious was that I knew for certain that I should go,
that I should make a point of going; and the more tactless, the more
unseemly my going would be, the more certainly I would go.

And there was a positive obstacle to my going: I had no money. All I had
was nine roubles, I had to give seven of that to my servant, Apollon,
for his monthly wages. That was all I paid him--he had to keep himself.

Not to pay him was impossible, considering his character. But I will
talk about that fellow, about that plague of mine, another time.

However, I knew I should go and should not pay him his wages.

That night I had the most hideous dreams. No wonder; all the evening I
had been oppressed by memories of my miserable days at school, and I
could not shake them off. I was sent to the school by distant relations,
upon whom I was dependent and of whom I have heard nothing since--they
sent me there a forlorn, silent boy, already crushed by their
reproaches, already troubled by doubt, and looking with savage distrust
at every one. My schoolfellows met me with spiteful and merciless jibes
because I was not like any of them. But I could not endure their taunts;
I could not give in to them with the ignoble readiness with which they
gave in to one another. I hated them from the first, and shut myself
away from every one in timid, wounded and disproportionate pride. Their
coarseness revolted me. They laughed cynically at my face, at my clumsy
figure; and yet what stupid faces they had themselves. In our school the
boys' faces seemed in a special way to degenerate and grow stupider. How
many fine-looking boys came to us! In a few years they became repulsive.
Even at sixteen I wondered at them morosely; even then I was struck by
the pettiness of their thoughts, the stupidity of their pursuits, their
games, their conversations. They had no understanding of such essential
things, they took no interest in such striking, impressive subjects,
that I could not help considering them inferior to myself. It was not
wounded vanity that drove me to it, and for God's sake do not thrust
upon me your hackneyed remarks, repeated to nausea, that "I was only a
dreamer," while they even then had an understanding of life. They
understood nothing, they had no idea of real life, and I swear that that
was what made me most indignant with them. On the contrary, the most
obvious, striking reality they accepted with fantastic stupidity and
even at that time were accustomed to respect success. Everything that
was just, but oppressed and looked down upon, they laughed at
heartlessly and shamefully. They took rank for intelligence; even at
sixteen they were already talking about a snug berth. Of course, a great
deal of it was due to their stupidity, to the bad examples with which
they had always been surrounded in their childhood and boyhood. They
were monstrously depraved. Of course a great deal of that, too, was
superficial and an assumption of cynicism; of course there were glimpses
of youth and freshness even in their depravity; but even that freshness
was not attractive, and showed itself in a certain rakishness. I hated
them horribly, though perhaps I was worse than any of them. They repaid
me in the same way, and did not conceal their aversion for me. But by
then I did not desire their affection: on the contrary I continually
longed for their humiliation. To escape from their derision I purposely
began to make all the progress I could with my studies and forced my way
to the very top. This impressed them. Moreover, they all began by
degrees to grasp that I had already read books none of them could read,
and understood things (not forming part of our school curriculum) of
which they had not even heard. They took a savage and sarcastic view of
it, but were morally impressed, especially as the teachers began to
notice me on those grounds. The mockery ceased, but the hostility
remained, and cold and strained relations became permanent between us.
In the end I could not put up with it: with years a craving for society,
for friends, developed in me. I attempted to get on friendly terms with
some of my schoolfellows; but somehow or other my intimacy with them was
always strained and soon ended of itself. Once, indeed, I did have a
friend. But I was already a tyrant at heart; I wanted to exercise
unbounded sway over him; I tried to instil into him a contempt for his
surroundings; I required of him a disdainful and complete break with
those surroundings. I frightened him with my passionate affection; I
reduced him to tears, to hysterics. He was a simple and devoted soul;
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