Notes From Underground Read online

she had at that moment! But I did not know then, that fifteen years later I

  should still in my imagination see Liza, always with the pitiful, distorted,

  inappropriate smile which was on her face at that minute.

  Next day I was ready again to look upon it all as nonsense, due to over-

  excited nerves, and, above all, as EXAGGERATED. I was always conscious of

  that weak point of mine, and sometimes very much afraid of it. "I

  exaggerate everything, that is where I go wrong," I repeated to myself

  every hour. But, however, "Liza will very likely come all the same," was

  the refrain with which all my reflections ended. I was so uneasy that I

  sometimes flew into a fury: "She'll come, she is certain to come!" I cried,

  running about the room, "if not today, she will come tomorrow; she'll

  find me out! The damnable romanticism of these pure hearts! Oh, the

  vileness--oh, the silliness--oh, the stupidity of these 'wretched sentimental

  souls!' Why, how fail to understand? How could one fail to

  understand? ..."

  But at this point I stopped short, and in great confusion, indeed.

  And how few, how few words, I thought, in passing, were needed; how

  little of the idyllic (and affectedly, bookishly, artificially idyllic too) had

  sufficed to turn a whole human life at once according to my will. That's

  virginity, to be sure! Freshness of soil!

  At times a thought occurred to me, to go to her, "to tell her all," and

  beg her not to come to me. But this thought stirred such wrath in me that

  I believed I should have crushed that "damned" Liza if she had chanced

  to be near me at the time. I should have insulted her, have spat at her,

  have turned her out, have struck her!

  One day passed, however, another and another; she did not come and I

  began to grow calmer. I felt particularly bold and cheerful after nine

  o'clock, I even sometimes began dreaming, and rather sweetly: I, for

  instance, became the salvation of Liza, simply through her coming to me

  and my talking to her .... I develop her, educate her. Finally, I notice

  that she loves me, loves me passionately. I pretend not to understand (I

  don't know, however, why I pretend, just for effect, perhaps). At last all

  confusion, transfigured, trembling and sobbing, she flings herself at my

  feet and says that I am her saviour, and that she loves me better than

  anything in the world. I am amazed, but .... "Liza," I say, "can you

  imagine that I have not noticed your love? I saw it all, I divined it, but I

  did not dare to approach you first, because I had an influence over you and was

  afraid that you would force yourself, from gratitude, to respond to my

  love, would try to rouse in your heart a feeling which was perhaps absent,

  and I did not wish that ... because it would be tyranny ... it would be

  indelicate (in short, I launch off at that point into European, inexplicably

  lofty subtleties a la George Sand), but now, now you are mine, you are my

  creation, you are pure, you are good, you are my noble wife.

  'Into my house come bold and free,

  Its rightful mistress there to be'."

  Then we begin living together, go abroad and so on, and so on. In fact,

  in the end it seemed vulgar to me myself, and I began putting out my

  tongue at myself.

  Besides, they won't let her out, "the hussy!" I thought. They don't let

  them go out very readily, especially in the evening (for some reason I

  fancied she would come in the evening, and at seven o'clock precisely).

  Though she did say she was not altogether a slave there yet, and had

  certain rights; so, h'm! Damn it all, she will come, she is sure to come!

  It was a good thing, in fact, that Apollon distracted my attention at that

  time by his rudeness. He drove me beyond all patience! He was the bane

  of my life, the curse laid upon me by Providence. We had been squabbling

  continually for years, and I hated him. My God, how I hated him!

  I believe I had never hated anyone in my life as I hated him, especially at

  some moments. He was an elderly, dignified man, who worked part of his

  time as a tailor. But for some unknown reason he despised me beyond all

  measure, and looked down upon me insufferably. Though, indeed, he

  looked down upon everyone. Simply to glance at that flaxen, smoothly

  brushed head, at the tuft of hair he combed up on his forehead and oiled

  with sunflower oil, at that dignified mouth, compressed into the shape of

  the letter V, made one feel one was confronting a man who never doubted

  of himself. He was a pedant, to the most extreme point, the greatest

  pedant I had met on earth, and with that had a vanity only befitting

  Alexander of Macedon. He was in love with every button on his coat,

  every nail on his fingers--absolutely in love with them, and he looked it!

  In his behaviour to me he was a perfect tyrant, he spoke very little to me,

  and if he chanced to glance at me he gave me a firm, majestically self-

  confident and invariably ironical look that drove me sometimes to fury.

  He did his work with the air of doing me the greatest favour, though he did

  scarcely anything for me, and did not, indeed, consider himself bound to

  do anything. There could be no doubt that he looked upon me as the

  greatest fool on earth, and that "he did not get rid of me" was simply that he

  could get wages from me every month. He consented to do nothing for me

  for seven roubles a month. Many sins should be forgiven me for what I

  suffered from him. My hatred reached such a point that sometimes his

  very step almost threw me into convulsions. What I loathed particularly

  was his lisp. His tongue must have been a little too long or something of

  that sort, for he continually lisped, and seemed to be very proud of it,

  imagining that it greatly added to his dignity. He spoke in a slow, measured

  tone, with his hands behind his back and his eyes fixed on the ground. He

  maddened me particularly when he read aloud the psalms to himself

  behind his partition. Many a battle I waged over that reading! But he was

  awfully fond of reading aloud in the evenings, in a slow, even, sing-song

  voice, as though over the dead. It is interesting that that is how he has

  ended: he hires himself out to read the psalms over the dead, and at the

  same time he kills rats and makes blacking. But at that time I could not get

  rid of him, it was as though he were chemically combined with my

  existence. Besides, nothing would have induced him to consent to leave

  me. I could not live in furnished lodgings: my lodging was my private

  solitude, my shell, my cave, in which I concealed myself from all mankind,

  and Apollon seemed to me, for some reason, an integral part of that

  flat, and for seven years I could not turn him away.

  To be two or three days behind with his wages, for instance, was

  impossible. He would have made such a fuss, I should not have known

  where to hide my head. But I was so exasperated with everyone during

  those days, that I made up my mind for some reason and with some

  object to PUNISH Apollon and not to pay him for a fortnight the wages that

  were owing him. I had for a long time--for the l
ast two years--been

  intending to do this, simply in order to teach him not to give himself airs

  with me, and to show him that if I liked I could withhold his wages. I

  purposed to say nothing to him about it, and was purposely silent indeed,

  in order to score off his pride and force him to be the first to speak of his

  wages. Then I would take the seven roubles out of a drawer, show him I

  have the money put aside on purpose, but that I won't, I won't, I simply

  won't pay him his wages, I won't just because that is "what I wish,"

  because "I am master, and it is for me to decide," because he has been

  disrespectful, because he has been rude; but if he were to ask respectfully

  I might be softened and give it to him, otherwise he might wait another

  fortnight, another three weeks, a whole month ....

  But angry as I was, yet he got the better of me. I could not hold out for

  four days. He began as he always did begin in such cases, for there had

  been such cases already, there had been attempts (and it may be observed

  I knew all this beforehand, I knew his nasty tactics by heart). He would

  begin by fixing upon me an exceedingly severe stare, keeping it up for

  several minutes at a time, particularly on meeting me or seeing me out of

  the house. If I held out and pretended not to notice these stares, he

  would, still in silence, proceed to further tortures. All at once, A PROPOS of

  nothing, he would walk softly and smoothly into my room, when I was

  pacing up and down or reading, stand at the door, one hand behind his

  back and one foot behind the other, and fix upon me a stare more than

  severe, utterly contemptuous. If I suddenly asked him what he wanted,

  he would make me no answer, but continue staring at me persistently for

  some seconds, then, with a peculiar compression of his lips and a most

  significant air, deliberately turn round and deliberately go back to his

  room. Two hours later he would come out again and again present

  himself before me in the same way. It had happened that in my fury I did

  not even ask him what he wanted, but simply raised my head sharply and

  imperiously and began staring back at him. So we stared at one another

  for two minutes; at last he turned with deliberation and dignity and went

  back again for two hours.

  If I were still not brought to reason by all this, but persisted in my

  revolt, he would suddenly begin sighing while he looked at me, long,

  deep sighs as though measuring by them the depths of my moral degradation,

  and, of course, it ended at last by his triumphing completely: I

  raged and shouted, but still was forced to do what he wanted.

  This time the usual staring manoeuvres had scarcely begun when I lost

  my temper and flew at him in a fury. I was irritated beyond endurance

  apart from him.

  "Stay," I cried, in a frenzy, as he was slowly and silently turning, with

  one hand behind his back, to go to his room. "Stay! Come back, come

  back, I tell you!" and I must have bawled so unnaturally, that he turned

  round and even looked at me with some wonder. However, he persisted in

  saying nothing, and that infuriated me.

  "How dare you come and look at me like that without being sent for?

  Answer!"

  After looking at me calmly for half a minute, he began turning

  round again.

  "Stay!" I roared, running up to him, "don't stir! There. Answer, now:

  what did you come in to look at?"

  "If you have any order to give me it's my duty to carry it out," he

  answered, after another silent pause, with a slow, measured lisp, raising

  his eyebrows and calmly twisting his head from one side to another, all

  this with exasperating composure.

  "That's not what I am asking you about, you torturer!" I shouted,

  turning crimson with anger. "I'll tell you why you came here myself: you

  see, I don't give you your wages, you are so proud you don't want to bow

  down and ask for it, and so you come to punish me with your stupid

  stares, to worry me and you have no sus-pic-ion how stupid it is--

  stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid! ..."

  He would have turned round again without a word, but I seized him.

  "Listen," I shouted to him. "Here's the money, do you see, here it is," (I

  took it out of the table drawer); "here's the seven roubles complete, but

  you are not going to have it, you ... are ... not ... going ... to ...

  have it until you come respectfully with bowed head to beg my pardon.

  Do you hear?"

  "That cannot be," he answered, with the most unnatural self-confidence.

  "It shall be so," I said, "I give you my word of honour, it shall be!"

  "And there's nothing for me to beg your pardon for," he went on, as

  though he had not noticed my exclamations at all. "Why, besides, you

  called me a 'torturer,' for which I can summon you at the police-station

  at any time for insulting behaviour."

  "Go, summon me," I roared, "go at once, this very minute, this very

  second! You are a torturer all the same! a torturer!"

  But he merely looked at me, then turned, and regardless of my loud

  calls to him, he walked to his room with an even step and without

  looking round.

  "If it had not been for Liza nothing of this would have happened," I

  decided inwardly. Then, after waiting a minute, I went myself behind his

  screen with a dignified and solemn air, though my heart was beating

  slowly and violently.

  "Apollon," I said quietly and emphatically, though I was breathless,

  "go at once without a minute's delay and fetch the police-officer."

  He had meanwhile settled himself at his table, put on his spectacles

  and taken up some sewing. But, hearing my order, he burst into a guffaw.

  "At once, go this minute! Go on, or else you can't imagine what

  will happen."

  "You are certainly out of your mind," he observed, without even

  raising his head, lisping as deliberately as ever and threading his needle.

  "Whoever heard of a man sending for the police against himself? And as

  for being frightened--you are upsetting yourself about nothing, for

  nothing will come of it."

  "Go!" I shrieked, clutching him by the shoulder. I felt I should strike

  him in a minute.

  But I did not notice the door from the passage softly and slowly open at

  that instant and a figure come in, stop short, and begin staring at us in

  perplexity I glanced, nearly swooned with shame, and rushed back to my

  room. There, clutching at my hair with both hands, I leaned my head

  against the wall and stood motionless in that position.

  Two minutes later I heard Apollon's deliberate footsteps. "There is

  some woman asking for you," he said, looking at me with peculiar

  severity. Then he stood aside and let in Liza. He would not go away, but

  stared at us sarcastically.

  "Go away, go away," I commanded in desperation. At that moment my

  clock began whirring and wheezing and struck seven.

  IX

  "Into my house come bold and free,

  Its rightful mistress there to be."

  I stood before her crushed, crestfallen, revoltingly confused, and I believe

  I smiled as I
did my utmost to wrap myself in the skirts of my ragged

  wadded dressing-gown--exactly as I had imagined the scene not long

  before in a fit of depression. After standing over us for a couple of minutes

  Apollon went away, but that did not make me more at ease. What made it

  worse was that she, too, was overwhelmed with confusion, more so, in

  fact, than I should have expected. At the sight of me, of course.

  "Sit down," I said mechanically, moving a chair up to the table, and I

  sat down on the sofa. She obediently sat down at once and gazed at me

  open-eyed, evidently expecting something from me at once. This

  naivete of expectation drove me to fury, but I restrained myself.

  She ought to have tried not to notice, as though everything had been as

  usual, while instead of that, she ... and I dimly felt that I should make

  her pay dearly for ALL THIS.

  "You have found me in a strange position, Liza," I began, stammering

  and knowing that this was the wrong way to begin. "No, no, don't

  imagine anything," I cried, seeing that she had suddenly flushed. "I am

  not ashamed of my poverty .... On the contrary, I look with pride on my

  poverty. I am poor but honourable .... One can be poor and honourable,"

  I muttered. "However ... would you like tea? ...."

  "No," she was beginning.

  "Wait a minute."

  I leapt up and ran to Apollon. I had to get out of the room somehow.

  "Apollon," I whispered in feverish haste, flinging down before him the

  seven roubles which had remained all the time in my clenched fist, "here

  are your wages, you see I give them to you; but for that you must come to

  my rescue: bring me tea and a dozen rusks from the restaurant. If you

  won't go, you'll make me a miserable man! You don't know what this

  woman is .... This is--everything! You may be imagining something ....

  But you don't know what that woman is! ..."

  Apollon, who had already sat down to his work and put on his

  spectacles again, at first glanced askance at the money without speaking

  or putting down his needle; then, without paying the slightest attention to

  me or making any answer, he went on busying himself with his needle,

  which he had not yet threaded. I waited before him for three minutes

  with my arms crossed A LA NAPOLEON. My temples were moist with sweat.

  I was pale, I felt it. But, thank God, he must have been moved to pity,

  looking at me. Having threaded his needle he deliberately got up from

  his seat, deliberately moved back his chair, deliberately took off his

  spectacles, deliberately counted the money, and finally asking me over

  his shoulder: "Shall I get a whole portion?" deliberately walked out of the

  room. As I was going back to Liza, the thought occurred to me on the

  way: shouldn't I run away just as I was in my dressing-gown, no matter

  where, and then let happen what would?

  I sat down again. She looked at me uneasily. For some minutes we

  were silent.

  "I will kill him," I shouted suddenly, striking the table with my fist so

  that the ink spurted out of the inkstand.

  "What are you saying!" she cried, starting.

  "I will kill him! kill him!" I shrieked, suddenly striking the table in

  absolute frenzy, and at the same time fully understanding how stupid it

  was to be in such a frenzy. "You don't know, Liza, what that torturer is to

  me. He is my torturer .... He has gone now to fetch some rusks; he ..."

  And suddenly I burst into tears. It was an hysterical attack. How

  ashamed I felt in the midst of my sobs; but still I could not restrain them.

  She was frightened.

  "What is the matter? What is wrong?" she cried, fussing about me.

  "Water, give me water, over there!" I muttered in a faint voice, though

  I was inwardly conscious that I could have got on very well without water