NOTES FROM THE UNDERGROUND

by Feodor Dostoevsky

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.