Notes from the Underground
after all the tears and transports which I have myself confessed. But
why is it contemptible? Can you imagine that I am ashamed of it all,
and that it was stupider than anything in your life, gentlemen? And I
can assure you that some of these fancies were by no means badly
composed.... It did not all happen on the shores of Lake Como. And yet
you are right—it really is vulgar and contemptible. And most
contemptible of all it is that now I am attempting to justify myself to
you. And even more contemptible than that is my making this remark now.
But that’s enough, or there will be no end to it; each step will be
more contemptible than the last....
I could never stand more than three months of dreaming at a time
without feeling an irresistible desire to plunge into society. To
plunge into society meant to visit my superior at the office, Anton
Antonitch Syetotchkin. He was the only permanent acquaintance I have
had in my life, and I wonder at the fact myself now. But I only went to
see him when that phase came over me, and when my dreams had reached
such a point of bliss that it became essential at once to embrace my
fellows and all mankind; and for that purpose I needed, at least, one
human being, actually existing. I had to call on Anton Antonitch,
however, on Tuesday—his at-home day; so I had always to time my
passionate desire to embrace humanity so that it might fall on a
Tuesday.
This Anton Antonitch lived on the fourth storey in a house in Five
Corners, in four low-pitched rooms, one smaller than the other, of a
particularly frugal and sallow appearance. He had two daughters and
their aunt, who used to pour out the tea. Of the daughters one was
thirteen and another fourteen, they both had snub noses, and I was
awfully shy of them because they were always whispering and giggling
together. The master of the house usually sat in his study on a leather
couch in front of the table with some grey-headed gentleman, usually a
colleague from our office or some other department. I never saw more
than two or three visitors there, always the same. They talked about
the excise duty; about business in the senate, about salaries, about
promotions, about His Excellency, and the best means of pleasing him,
and so on. I had the patience to sit like a fool beside these people
for four hours at a stretch, listening to them without knowing what to
say to them or venturing to say a word. I became stupefied, several
times I felt myself perspiring, I was overcome by a sort of paralysis;
but this was pleasant and good for me. On returning home I deferred for
a time my desire to embrace all mankind.
I had however one other acquaintance of a sort, Simonov, who was an old
schoolfellow. I had a number of schoolfellows, indeed, in Petersburg,
but I did not associate with them and had even given up nodding to them
in the street. I believe I had transferred into the department I was in
simply to avoid their company and to cut off all connection with my
hateful childhood. Curses on that school and all those terrible years
of penal servitude! In short, I parted from my schoolfellows as soon as
I got out into the world. There were two or three left to whom I nodded
in the street. One of them was Simonov, who had in no way been
distinguished at school, was of a quiet and equable disposition; but I
discovered in him a certain independence of character and even honesty
I don’t even suppose that he was particularly stupid. I had at one time
spent some rather soulful moments with him, but these had not lasted
long and had somehow been suddenly clouded over. He was evidently
uncomfortable at these reminiscences, and was, I fancy, always afraid
that I might take up the same tone again. I suspected that he had an
aversion for me, but still I went on going to see him, not being quite
certain of it.
And so on one occasion, unable to endure my solitude and knowing that
as it was Thursday Anton Antonitch’s door would be closed, I thought of
Simonov. Climbing up to his fourth storey I was thinking that the man
disliked me and that it was a mistake to go and see him. But as it
always happened that such reflections impelled me, as though purposely,
to put myself into a false position, I went in. It was almost a year
since I had last seen Simonov.
III
I found two of my old schoolfellows with him. They seemed to be
discussing an important matter. All of them took scarcely any notice of
my entrance, which was strange, for I had not met them for years.
Evidently they looked upon me as something on the level of a common
fly. I had not been treated like that even at school, though they all
hated me. I knew, of course, that they must despise me now for my lack
of success in the service, and for my having let myself sink so low,
going about badly dressed and so on—which seemed to them a sign of my
incapacity and insignificance. But I had not expected such contempt.
Simonov was positively surprised at my turning up. Even in old days he
had always seemed surprised at my coming. All this disconcerted me: I
sat down, feeling rather miserable, and began listening to what they
were saying.
They were engaged in warm and earnest conversation about a farewell
dinner which they wanted to arrange for the next day to a comrade of
theirs called Zverkov, an officer in the army, who was going away to a
distant province. This Zverkov had been all the time at school with me
too. I had begun to hate him particularly in the upper forms. In the
lower forms he had simply been a pretty, playful boy whom everybody
liked. I had hated him, however, even in the lower forms, just because
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 interests. 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 Russianised German—a
little fellow with the face of a monkey, a blockhead who was always
deriding everyone, 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 tomorrow,” 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.