Notes From Underground Page 6

fancied that I was a coward and a slave, and I fancied it just because I was

  more highly developed. But it was not only that I fancied it, it really was so.

  I was a coward and a slave. I say this without the slightest embarrassment.

  Every decent man of our age must be a coward and a slave. That is his

  normal condition. Of that I am firmly persuaded. He is made and constructed

  to that very end. And not only at the present time owing to some

  casual circumstances, but always, at all times, a decent man is bound to

  be a coward and a slave. It is the law of nature for all decent people all over

  the earth. If anyone of them happens to be valiant about something, he

  need not be comforted nor carried away by that; he would show the white

  feather just the same before something else. That is how it invariably and

  inevitably ends. Only donkeys and mules are valiant, and they only till

  they are pushed up to the wall. It is not worth while to pay attention to

  them for they really are of no consequence.

  Another circumstance, too, worried me in those days: that there was no

  one like me and I was unlike anyone else. "I am alone and they are

  EVERYONE," I thought--and pondered.

  From that it is evident that I was still a youngster.

  The very opposite sometimes happened. It was loathsome sometimes

  to go to the office; things reached such a point that I often came home ill.

  But all at once, A PROPOS of nothing, there would come a phase of

  scepticism and indifference (everything happened in phases to me), and I

  would laugh myself at my intolerance and fastidiousness, I would reproach

  myself with being ROMANTIC. At one time I was unwilling to speak

  to anyone, while at other times I would not only talk, but go to the length

  of contemplating making friends with them. All my fastidiousness would

  suddenly, for no rhyme or reason, vanish. Who knows, perhaps I never

  had really had it, and it had simply been affected, and got out of books. I

  have not decided that question even now. Once I quite made friends with

  them, visited their homes, played preference, drank vodka, talked of

  promotions .... But here let me make a digression.

  We Russians, speaking generally, have never had those foolish

  transcendental "romantics"--German, and still more French--on whom

  nothing produces any effect; if there were an earthquake, if all France

  perished at the barricades, they would still be the same, they would not

  even have the decency to affect a change, but would still go on singing

  their transcendental songs to the hour of their death, because they are

  fools. We, in Russia, have no fools; that is well known. That is what

  distinguishes us from foreign lands. Consequently these transcendental

  natures are not found amongst us in their pure form. The idea that they

  are is due to our "realistic" journalists and critics of that day, always on

  the look out for Kostanzhoglos and Uncle Pyotr Ivanitchs and foolishly

  accepting them as our ideal; they have slandered our romantics, taking

  them for the same transcendental sort as in Germany or France. On the

  contrary, the characteristics of our "romantics" are absolutely and directly

  opposed to the transcendental European type, and no European

  standard can be applied to them. (Allow me to make use of this word

  "romantic"--an old-fashioned and much respected word which has

  done good service and is familiar to all.) The characteristics of our

  romantic are to understand everything, TO SEE EVERYTHING AND TO SEE IT

  OFTEN INCOMPARABLY MORE CLEARLY THAN OUR MOST REALISTIC MINDS SEE IT; to

  refuse to accept anyone or anything, but at the same time not to despise

  anything; to give way, to yield, from policy; never to lose sight of a useful

  practical object (such as rent-free quarters at the government expense,

  pensions, decorations), to keep their eye on that object through all the

  enthusiasms and volumes of lyrical poems, and at the same time to preserve

  "the sublime and the beautiful" inviolate within them to the hour of

  their death, and to preserve themselves also, incidentally, like some precious

  jewel wrapped in cotton wool if only for the benefit of "the sublime

  and the beautiful." Our "romantic" is a man of great breadth and the

  greatest rogue of all our rogues, I assure you .... I can assure you from

  experience, indeed. Of course, that is, if he is intelligent. But what am I

  saying! The romantic is always intelligent, and I only meant to observe

  that although we have had foolish romantics they don't count, and they

  were only so because in the flower of their youth they degenerated into

  Germans, and to preserve their precious jewel more comfortably, settled

  somewhere out there--by preference in Weimar or the Black Forest.

  I, for instance, genuinely despised my official work and did not openly

  abuse it simply because I was in it myself and got a salary for it. Anyway,

  take note, I did not openly abuse it. Our romantic would rather go out of

  his mind--a thing, however, which very rarely happens--than take to

  open abuse, unless he had some other career in view; and he is never

  kicked out. At most, they would take him to the lunatic asylum as "the

  King of Spain" if he should go very mad. But it is only the thin, fair people

  who go out of their minds in Russia. Innumerable "romantics" attain later

  in life to considerable rank in the service. Their many-sidedness is

  remarkable! And what a faculty they have for the most contradictory

  sensations! I was comforted by this thought even in those days, and I am of

  the same opinion now. That is why there are so many "broad natures" among

  us who never lose their ideal even in the depths of degradation; and though

  they never stir a finger for their ideal, though they are arrant thieves and

  knaves, yet they tearfully cherish their first ideal and are extraordinarily

  honest at heart. Yes, it is only among us that the most incorrigible rogue

  can be absolutely and loftily honest at heart without in the least ceasing to

  be a rogue. I repeat, our romantics, frequently, become such accomplished

  rascals (I use the term "rascals" affectionately), suddenly display

  such a sense of reality and practical knowledge that their bewildered superiors

  and the public generally can only ejaculate in amazement.

  Their many-sidedness is really amazing, and goodness knows what it

  may develop into later on, and what the future has in store for us. It is not

  a poor material! I do not say this from any foolish or boastful patriotism.

  But I feel sure that you are again imagining that I am joking. Or perhaps

  it's just the contrary and you are convinced that I really think so. Anyway,

  gentlemen, I shall welcome both views as an honour and a special favour.

  And do forgive my digression.

  I did not, of course, maintain friendly relations with my comrades and

  soon was at loggerheads with them, and in my youth and inexperience I

  even gave up bowing to them, as though I had cut off all relations. That,

  however, only happened to me once. As a rule, I was always alone.

  In the first place I spent most of my time at home, reading. I tried to
<
br />   stifle all that was continually seething within me by means of external

  impressions. And the only external means I had was reading. Reading, of

  course, was a great help--exciting me, giving me pleasure and pain. But

  at times it bored me fearfully. One longed for movement in spite of

  everything, and I plunged all at once into dark, underground, loathsome

  vice of the pettiest kind. My wretched passions were acute, smarting,

  from my continual, sickly irritability I had hysterical impulses, with

  tears and convulsions. I had no resource except reading, that is, there was

  nothing in my surroundings which I could respect and which attracted

  me. I was overwhelmed with depression, too; I had an hysterical craving

  for incongruity and for contrast, and so I took to vice. I have not said all

  this to justify myself .... But, no! I am lying. I did want to justify

  myself. I make that little observation for my own benefit, gentlemen. I don't

  want to lie. I vowed to myself I would not.

  And so, furtively, timidly, in solitude, at night, I indulged in filthy

  vice, with a feeling of shame which never deserted me, even at the most

  loathsome moments, and which at such moments nearly made me curse.

  Already even then I had my underground world in my soul. I was

  fearfully afraid of being seen, of being met, of being recognised. I visited

  various obscure haunts.

  One night as I was passing a tavern I saw through a lighted window

  some gentlemen fighting with billiard cues, and saw one of them thrown

  out of the window. At other times I should have felt very much disgusted,

  but I was in such a mood at the time, that I actually envied the gentleman

  thrown out of the window--and I envied him so much that I even went

  into the tavern and into the billiard-room. "Perhaps," I thought, "I'll

  have a fight, too, and they'll throw me out of the window."

  I was not drunk--but what is one to do--depression will drive a man

  to such a pitch of hysteria? But nothing happened. It seemed that I was

  not even equal to being thrown out of the window and I went away

  without having my fight.

  An officer put me in my place from the first moment.

  I was standing by the billiard-table and in my ignorance blocking up

  the way, and he wanted to pass; he took me by the shoulders and without a

  word--without a warning or explanation--moved me from where I was

  standing to another spot and passed by as though he had not noticed me. I

  could have forgiven blows, but I could not forgive his having moved me

  without noticing me.

  Devil knows what I would have given for a real regular quarrel--a

  more decent, a more LITERARY one, so to speak. I had been treated like a

  fly. This officer was over six foot, while I was a spindly little fellow. But

  the quarrel was in my hands. I had only to protest and I certainly would

  have been thrown out of the window. But I changed my mind and

  preferred to beat a resentful retreat.

  I went out of the tavern straight home, confused and troubled, and the

  next night I went out again with the same lewd intentions, still more

  furtively, abjectly and miserably than before, as it were, with tears in my

  eyes--but still I did go out again. Don't imagine, though, it was coward-

  ice made me slink away from the officer; I never have been a coward at

  heart, though I have always been a coward in action. Don't be in a hurry

  to laugh--I assure you I can explain it all.

  Oh, if only that officer had been one of the sort who would consent to

  fight a duel! But no, he was one of those gentlemen (alas, long extinct!)

  who preferred fighting with cues or, like Gogol's Lieutenant Pirogov,

  appealing to the police. They did not fight duels and would have thought

  a duel with a civilian like me an utterly unseemly procedure in any

  case--and they looked upon the duel altogether as something impossible,

  something free-thinking and French. But they were quite ready to

  bully, especially when they were over six foot.

  I did not slink away through cowardice, but through an unbounded

  vanity. I was afraid not of his six foot, not of getting a sound thrashing and

  being thrown out of the window; I should have had physical courage

  enough, I assure you; but I had not the moral courage. What I was afraid of

  was that everyone present, from the insolent marker down to the lowest

  little stinking, pimply clerk in a greasy collar, would jeer at me and fail to

  understand when I began to protest and to address them in literary language.

  For of the point of honour--not of honour, but of the point of

  honour (POINT D'HONNEUR)--one cannot speak among us except in literary

  language. You can't allude to the "point of honour" in ordinary language.

  I was fully convinced (the sense of reality, in spite of all my romanticism!)

  that they would all simply split their sides with laughter, and that the

  officer would not simply beat me, that is, without insulting me, but would

  certainly prod me in the back with his knee, kick me round the billiard-

  table, and only then perhaps have pity and drop me out of the window.

  Of course, this trivial incident could not with me end in that. I often

  met that officer afterwards in the street and noticed him very carefully. I

  am not quite sure whether he recognised me, I imagine not; I judge from

  certain signs. But I--I stared at him with spite and hatred and so it went

  on ... for several years! My resentment grew even deeper with years. At

  first I began making stealthy inquiries about this officer. It was difficult

  for me to do so, for I knew no one. But one day I heard someone shout his

  surname in the street as I was following him at a distance, as though I

  were tied to him--and so I learnt his surname. Another time I followed

  him to his flat, and for ten kopecks learned from the porter where he

  lived, on which storey, whether he lived alone or with others, and so

  on--in fact, everything one could learn from a porter. One morning,

  though I had never tried my hand with the pen, it suddenly occurred to

  me to write a satire on this officer in the form of a novel which would unmask

  his villainy. I wrote the novel with relish. I did unmask his villainy,

  I even exaggerated it; at first I so altered his surname that it could easily be

  recognised, but on second thoughts I changed it, and sent the story to the

  OTETCHESTVENNIYA ZAPISKI. But at that time such attacks were not the

  fashion and my story was not printed. That was a great vexation to me.

  Sometimes I was positively choked with resentment. At last I determined

  to challenge my enemy to a duel. I composed a splendid, charming

  letter to him, imploring him to apologise to me, and hinting rather

  plainly at a duel in case of refusal. The letter was so composed that if the

  officer had had the least understanding of the sublime and the beautiful

  he would certainly have flung himself on my neck and have offered me

  his friendship. And how fine that would have been! How we should have

  got on together! "He could have shielded me with his higher rank, while I

  could have improved his mind with my culture, and, w
ell ... my ideas,

  and all sorts of things might have happened." Only fancy, this was two

  years after his insult to me, and my challenge would have been a

  ridiculous anachronism, in spite of all the ingenuity of my letter in

  disguising and explaining away the anachronism. But, thank God (to this

  day I thank the Almighty with tears in my eyes) I did not send the letter to

  him. Cold shivers run down my back when I think of what might have

  happened if I had sent it.

  And all at once I revenged myself in the simplest way, by a stroke of

  genius! A brilliant thought suddenly dawned upon me. Sometimes on

  holidays I used to stroll along the sunny side of the Nevsky about four

  o'clock in the afternoon. Though it was hardly a stroll so much as a series of

  innumerable miseries, humiliations and resentments; but no doubt that

  was just what I wanted. I used to wriggle along in a most unseemly fashion,

  like an eel, continually moving aside to make way for generals, for officers

  of the guards and the hussars, or for ladies. At such minutes there used to be

  a convulsive twinge at my heart, and I used to feel hot all down my back at

  the mere thought of the wretchedness of my attire, of the wretchedness and

  abjectness of my little scurrying figure. This was a regular martyrdom, a

  continual, intolerable humiliation at the thought, which passed into an

  incessant and direct sensation, that I was a mere fly in the eyes of all this

  world, a nasty, disgusting fly--more intelligent, more highly developed,

  more refined in feeling than any of them, of course--but a fly that was

  continually making way for everyone, insulted and injured by everyone.

  Why I inflicted this torture upon myself, why I went to the Nevsky, I don't

  know. I felt simply drawn there at every possible opportunity.

  Already then I began to experience a rush of the enjoyment of which I

  spoke in the first chapter. After my affair with the officer I felt even more

  drawn there than before: it was on the Nevsky that I met him most frequently,

  there I could admire him. He, too, went there chiefly on holidays,

  He, too, turned out of his path for generals and persons of high rank, and

  he too, wriggled between them like an eel; but people, like me, or even

  better dressed than me, he simply walked over; he made straight for them

  as though there was nothing but empty space before him, and never, under

  any circumstances, turned aside. I gloated over my resentment watching

  him and ... always resentfully made way for him. It exasperated me that

  even in the street I could not be on an even footing with him.

  "Why must you invariably be the first to move aside?" I kept asking

  myself in hysterical rage, waking up sometimes at three o'clock in the

  morning. "Why is it you and not he? There's no regulation about it;

  there's no written law. Let the making way be equal as it usually is when

  refined people meet; he moves half-way and you move half-way; you pass

  with mutual respect."

  But that never happened, and I always moved aside, while he did not

  even notice my making way for him. And lo and behold a bright idea

  dawned upon me! "What," I thought, "if I meet him and don't move on

  one side? What if I don't move aside on purpose, even if I knock up

  against him? How would that be?" This audacious idea took such a hold

  on me that it gave me no peace. I was dreaming of it continually, horribly,

  and I purposely went more frequently to the Nevsky in order to picture

  more vividly how I should do it when I did do it. I was delighted. This

  intention seemed to me more and more practical and possible.

  "Of course I shall not really push him," I thought, already more good-

  natured in my joy. "I will simply not turn aside, will run up against him,

  not very violently, but just shouldering each other--just as much as