Notes From Underground Page #26

"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

								

that."

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

Ah, so that was it!

"Such a thing, Liza, happens in those accursed families in which there
is neither love nor God," I retorted warmly, "and where there is no
love, 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 your own
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, honest
people live happily."

"H'm ... yes. Perhaps. Another thing, Liza, man is fond of reckoning up
his troubles, but does not count his joys. If he counted them up as he
ought, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it.
And what if all goes well with the family, if the blessing of God is
upon it, if the husband is a good one, loves you, cherishes you, never
leaves you! There is happiness in such a family! Even sometimes there is
happiness in the midst of sorrow; and indeed sorrow is everywhere. If
you marry you will find out for yourself. But think of the first years
of married life with one you love: what happiness, what happiness there
sometimes is in it! And indeed it's the ordinary thing. In those early
days even quarrels with one's husband end happily. Some women get up
quarrels with their husbands just because they love them. Indeed, I knew
a woman like that: she seemed to say that because she loved him, she
would torment him and make him feel it. You know that you may torment a
man on purpose through love. Women are particularly given to that,
thinking to themselves 'I will love him so, I will make so much of him
afterwards, that it's no sin to torment him a little now.' And all in
the house rejoice in the sight of you, and you are happy and gay and
peaceful and honourable.... Then there are some women 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 off on the sly to find out
where he was, whether he was with some other woman. That's a pity. And
the woman knows herself it's wrong, and her heart fails her and she
suffers, but she loves--it's all through love. And how sweet it is to
make it up after quarrels, to own herself in the wrong or to forgive
him! And they are both so happy all at once--as though they had met
anew, been married over again; as though their love had begun afresh.
And no one, no one should know what passes between husband and wife if
they love one another. And whatever quarrels there may be between them
they ought not to call in their own mother to judge between 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 one another more, and much
is built on respect. And if once there has been love, 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 the husband is kind and
straightforward, why should not love last? The first phase of married
love will pass, it is true, but then there will come a love that is
better still. Then there will be the union of souls, they will have
everything in common, there will be no secrets between them. And once
they have children, the most difficult times will seem to them happy, so
long as there is love and courage. Even toil will be a joy, you may deny
yourself bread for your children and even that will be a joy. They will
love you for it afterwards; so you are laying by for your future. As the
children grow up you feel that you are an example, a support for them;
that even after you die your children will always keep your thoughts and
feelings, because they have received 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 and mother nearer? People say it's a trial to
have children. Who says that? It is heavenly happiness! Are you fond of
little children, Liza? I am awfully fond of them. You know--a little
rosy baby boy at your bosom, and what husband's heart is not touched,
seeing his wife nursing his child! A plump little rosy baby, sprawling
and snuggling, chubby little hands and feet, clean tiny little nails, so
tiny that it makes one laugh to look at them; eyes that look as if they
understand everything. And while it sucks it clutches at your bosom with
its little hand, plays. When its father comes up, the child tears itself
away from the bosom, flings itself back, looks at its father, laughs, as
though it were fearfully funny and falls to sucking again. Or it will
bite its mother's breast when its little teeth are coming, while it
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 three together,
husband, wife and child? One can forgive a great deal for the sake of
such moments. Yes, Liza, one must first learn to live oneself before one
blames others!"

"It's by pictures, pictures like that one must get at you," I thought to
myself, though I did speak with real feeling, and all at once I flushed
crimson. "What if she were suddenly to burst out laughing, what should I
do then?" That idea drove me to fury. Towards the end of my 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 a
quiver of something different in her voice, not abrupt, harsh and
unyielding as before, but something soft and shamefaced, so shamefaced
that 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 was
a 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, that
this is usually the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when
the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded, and that
their pride makes them refuse to surrender till the last moment and
shrink from giving expression to their feelings before you. I ought to
have guessed the truth from the timidity with which she had repeatedly
approached her sarcasm, only bringing herself to utter it at last with
an effort. But I did not guess, and an evil feeling took possession of
me.

"Wait a bit!" I thought.

VII

"Oh, hush, Liza! How can you talk about being like a book, when it makes
even me, an outsider, feel sick? Though I don't look at it as an
outsider, for, indeed, it touches me to the heart.... Is it possible, is
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