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  Notes from the Underground, by Feodor Dostoevsky

  July, 1996 [Etext #600]

  *****The Project Gutenberg Etext Notes from the Underground****

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  Notes from the Underground

  FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY

  PART I

  Underground*

  *The author of the diary and the diary itself

  are, of course, imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear

  that such persons as the writer of these notes

  not only may, but positively must, exist in our

  society, when we consider the circumstances in

  the midst of which our society is formed. I have

  tried to expose to the view of the public more

  distinctly than is commonly done, one of the

  characters of the recent past. He is one of the

  representatives of a generation still living. In this

  fragment, entitled "Underground," this person

  introduces himself and his views, and, as it were,

  tries to explain the causes owing to which he has

  made his appearance and was bound to make his

  appearance in our midst. In the second fragment

  there are added the actual notes of this person

  concerning certain events in his life. --AUTHOR'S NOTE.

  I

  I am a sick man. ... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I

  believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my

  disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor

  for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors.

  Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine,

  anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am

  superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you

  probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I

  can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my

  spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not

  consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only

  injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is

  from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse!

  I have been going on like that for a long time--twenty years. Now I am

  forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a

  spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take

  bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A

  poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound

  very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off

  in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!)

  When petitioners used to come for information to the table at which I

  sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment when I

  succeed
ed in making anybody unhappy. I almost did succeed. For the

  most part they were all timid people--of course, they were petitioners.

  But of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could not

  endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked his sword in a

  disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months over

  that sword. At last I got the better of him. He left off clanking it. That

  happened in my youth, though.

  But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite?

  Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that continually,

  even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with

  shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man,

  that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing myself by it. I

  might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of

  tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be

  genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards

  and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way.

  I was lying when I said just now that I was a spiteful official. I was

  lying from spite. I was simply amusing myself with the petitioners and with

  the officer, and in reality I never could become spiteful. I was conscious

  every moment in myself of many, very many elements absolutely opposite to

  that. I felt them positively swarming in me, these opposite elements.

  I knew that they had been swarming in me all my life and craving

  some outlet from me, but I would not let them, would not let them,

  purposely would not let them come out. They tormented me till I was

  ashamed: they drove me to convulsions and--sickened me, at last, how

  they sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen, that I am

  expressing remorse for something now, that I am asking your forgiveness

  for something? I am sure you are fancying that ... However, I assure you

  I do not care if you are. ...

  It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to

  become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest

  man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my

  corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an

  intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool

  who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and

  morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of

  character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my

  conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty

  years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer

  than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live

  beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly I will tell you who do:

  fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these

  venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the

  whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on

  living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! ... Stay, let me

  take breath ...

  You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. You are

  mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful person as you

  imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by all this babble (and

  I feel that you are irritated) you think fit to ask me who I am--then my

  answer is, I am a collegiate assessor. I was in the service that I might have

  something to eat (and solely for that reason), and when last year a distant

  relation left me six thousand roubles in his will I immediately retired

  from the service and settled down in my corner. I used to live in this

  corner before, but now I have settled down in it. My room is a wretched,

  horrid one in the outskirts of the town. My servant is an old country-

  woman, ill-natured from stupidity, and, moreover, there is always a nasty