Underground

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 am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I think my liver is diseased. But I know nothing at all about my illness, and I don’t know for certain what’s wrong with me. I don’t see a doctor about it, and I never have, though I respect medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, superstitious enough to respect medicine, anyway. (I am well educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious.) No, I refuse to see a doctor out of spite. You probably won’t understand that. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can’t explain exactly who I’m hurting with my spite in this case. I know perfectly well that I can’t “get back at” doctors by not seeing them. I know better than anyone that I’m only hurting myself and no one else. But still, if I don’t see a doctor, it’s out of 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!)

I have been living like that for a long time, twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to work for the government, but I no longer do. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in it. You see, I didn't take bribes, so I had to get something out of the job, at least. (A poor joke, but I won't cross it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty. But now I can see that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way. So I won't cross it out, just 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.

When petitioners came to my desk for information, I would grind my teeth at them. I took intense pleasure in making anyone unhappy. I almost always succeeded. For the most part, they were all timid people. Of course they were, since they were petitioners. But among the arrogant ones, there was one officer in particular I couldn’t stand. He simply refused to be humble and clanked his sword in a disgusting way. I feuded with him over that sword for eighteen months. At last, I got the better of him. He stopped clanking his sword. That was 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.

But do you know, gentlemen, what mattered most about my spite? The real sting was that I was always ashamed to admit something to myself. Even at my angriest, I knew I wasn't spiteful or even bitter. I was just scaring sparrows at random and amusing myself. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with and a cup of tea with sugar, and maybe I'd calm down. I might even be genuinely touched. Though afterward, I'd probably grind my teeth at myself and lie awake with shame for months. That was how I was.

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....

I was lying when I just said I was a spiteful official. I was lying out of spite. I was only amusing myself with the petitioners and the officer. In reality, I could never be spiteful. Every moment, I was aware of many, very many qualities in myself that were the exact opposite of spite. I could actually feel these opposite qualities swarming inside me. I knew they had been swarming inside me all my life, craving some way out. But I would not let them out. I would not let them. I deliberately refused to let them out. They tormented me until I felt ashamed. They drove me to convulsions and finally sickened me. How they sickened me! Now, gentlemen, aren’t you imagining that I’m expressing remorse for something, that I’m asking you to forgive me for something? I’m sure you are imagining that ... But I assure you, I don’t 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 ...

It wasn't just that I couldn't become spiteful. I didn't know how to become anything at all. I could be neither spiteful nor kind, neither a scoundrel nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now I live out my life in my corner, taunting myself with a spiteful and useless consolation. An intelligent man cannot seriously become anything, and only a fool becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must, and morally ought to, be above all a creature without character. A man of character, a man of action, is above all a limited creature. That has been my conviction for forty years. I'm forty now, and you know forty years is a whole lifetime. You know it's extreme old age. Living past forty is bad manners. It's vulgar and immoral. Who does live past forty? Answer that sincerely and honestly. I'll tell you who: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their faces, all these venerable old men, all these silver-haired and respected elders! I tell the whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, because I intend to live to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! ... Wait, let me catch my 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 smell about her. I am told that the Petersburg climate is bad for me, and that with my small means it is very expensive to live in Petersburg. I know all that better than all these sage and experienced counsellors and monitors.... But I am remaining in Petersburg; I am not going away from Petersburg! I am not going away because ... ech! Why, it is absolutely no matter whether I am going away or not going away.

No doubt you imagine, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. You are mistaken about that, too. I am not nearly as cheerful as you imagine, or may imagine. But perhaps all this babble irritates you. I can feel that it does. So you see fit to ask who I am. My answer is that I am a collegiate assessor. I worked in the civil service so I would have something to eat, and for that reason alone. Last year, a distant relative 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 miserable, horrible place on the outskirts of town. My servant is an old country woman who is bad-tempered because she is stupid. What's more, she always smells nasty. I am told that the Petersburg climate is bad for me. I am also told that Petersburg is very expensive for someone with my limited means. I know all that better than all these wise and experienced advisers and mentors.... But I am staying in Petersburg. I am not leaving Petersburg! I am not leaving because ... oh, what's the point! It doesn't matter at all whether I leave or stay.

But what can a decent man speak of with most pleasure?

But what does a decent man most enjoy talking about?

Answer: Of himself.

Answer: Himself.

Well, so I will talk about myself.

Well, so I'll talk about myself.