Notes From Underground Page #25

"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

								


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 so
cross? Of course you may have had your own troubles. What is it to me?
It's simply that I felt sorry."

"Sorry for whom?"

"Sorry for you."

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

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. Realize it while there is
still 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 abrupt
tone 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 without
happiness. Even in sorrow life is sweet; life is sweet, however one
lives. But here what is there but ... foulness. Phew!"

I turned away with disgust; I was no longer reasoning coldly. I began to
feel myself what I was saying and warmed to the subject. I was already
longing to expound the cherished ideas I had brooded over in my corner.
Something suddenly flared up in me. An object had appeared before 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 a
woman. It's a different thing. I may degrade and defile myself, but I am
not any one's slave. I come and go, and that's an end of it. I shake it
off, and I am a different man. But you are a slave from the start. Yes,
a slave! You give up everything, your whole freedom. If you want to
break your chains afterwards, you won't be able to: you will 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 your freedom. They will
see to that. It's like selling your soul to the devil.... And besides
... perhaps I, too, am just as unlucky--how do you 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 it was only afterwards you
began staring at me like a wild creature, and I at you. Is that loving?
Is that how one human being should meet another? 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 the same
thought may have been straying through her mind when she was staring at
me just before. So she, too, was capable of certain thoughts? "Damn it
all, this was interesting, this was a point of likeness!" I thought,
almost rubbing my hands. And indeed it's easy to turn 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 darkness
that she propped herself on her arm. Perhaps she was scrutinizing me.
How I regretted that I could not see her eyes. I heard her deep
breathing.

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

"Oh, I don't know."

"But how nice it would be to be living in your father's house! It's warm
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 get
far with sentimentality." But it was only a momentary thought. I swear
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 am
convinced that some one has wronged you, and that you are more sinned
against than sinning. Of course, I know nothing of your story, but it'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 it was a
good thing.... She was silent.

"See, Liza, I will tell you about myself. If I had had a home from
childhood, I shouldn't be what I am now. I often think that. However bad
it may be at home, anyway they are your father and mother, and not
enemies, strangers. Once a year at least, they'll show their love of
you. Anyway, you know you are at home. I grew up without a home; and
perhaps 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 moralizing."

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

"Why so?" she asked.

Ah! so she was listening!

"I don't know, Liza. I knew a father who was a stern, austere man, but
used 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 at
parties 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 at
night, and he would wake to kiss her in her sleep and make the sign of
the cross over her. He would go about in a dirty old coat, he was stingy
to every one else, but would spend his last penny for her, giving her
expensive presents, and it was his greatest delight when she was pleased
with what he gave her. Fathers always love their daughters more than the
mothers do. Some girls live happily at home! And I believe I should
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 kiss any
one else! That she should love a stranger more than her father! It's
painful to imagine it. Of course, that's all nonsense, of course every
father would be reasonable at last. But I believe before I should let
her marry, I should worry myself to death; I should find fault with all
her suitors. But I should end by letting her marry whom she herself
loved. The one whom the daughter loves always seems the worst to the
father, you know. That is always so. So many family troubles come from
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