Notes From The Underground | Page 3

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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 succeeded 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