Reading Notes from Underground: Part Two
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| The cover of my Wilks translation, kindle edition. |
The first part of Notes from Underground reveals a miserable, sarcastic 40-year-old retiree's mind who is living in squalor isolated from society. Part Two shifts gears and is a remembrance by the narrator of a handful of episodes from his life as a 24-year-old. We can see the origins of how he became the Underground Man as we explore his frustrations and attempts at participating in society. Already, by free will, he is living an impoverished life but he loves to read and spends much of his time alone with books.
One of the most obviously comic passages in the lampoonish (1864 style) prose happens when this younger, pre-Underground Man decides to stylishly attire himself for a physical run-in with a local policeman. “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.” (Garnett, 2, 1)
For someone, anyone, to simply act as if he did not exist at all, to move him aside without so much as acknowledging his presence, was too much for the younger man. His first instinct was to vent. “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...” (2, 1) Predictably, this effort ends in failure (but it is perhaps one the first examples of "journaling" for mental health haha).
Dostoevsky treats the reader to a rather amusing passage where the youthful Underground Man purchases a new coat for the sole purpose of physically bumping into (and perhaps pushing) the officer on the street. But he doesn't like the coat's raccoon collar and so purchases a replacement beaver collar instead. Ridiculous. What difference does something like that make given his objective is to essentially prove his existence to the officer in question? But it is revealing of the, at times, superficial nature of the younger man.
Like everything else about him, he is conflicted over whether or not to go through with his “diabolical” plan of basically assaulting a police officer. He talks himself out of it and then, abruptly while passing him on the street, flings his body forward into the larger man. “Of course, I got the worst of it — he was stronger, but that was not the point. The point was that I had attained my object, I had kept up my dignity, I had not yielded a step, and had put myself publicly on an equal social footing with him. I returned home feeling that I was fully avenged for everything. I was delighted. I was triumphant and sang Italian arias.” (2, 1)
The touch of singing arias from such modest success of a small, insignificant plan is, of course, completely comic. Despite what the Underground Man thinks later, the policeman does not seem to ever notice him at all. There is no consequence to his ridiculously self-absorbed act. The young man makes no impression whatsoever, which is a direct affront to his precarious sense of self-worth. That is all that materializes from the first episode of Part Two.
Still, the young man feels accomplished, but this soon, too, fades from his life and the novel changes course for a few pages. “But my spell of petty dissipation was coming to an end and I became heartily sick of it all. I had pangs of remorse, but I drove them away: I felt nauseated enough already. Gradually, however, I grew accustomed to this too. I grew accustomed to everything, that is, I didn’t actually grow accustomed but somehow agreed of my own free will to grin and bear it. But I had a certain outlet which reconciled me to everything and this was to escape into all that was ‘sublime and beautiful’ – in my dreams, of course. I indulged in an orgy of dreaming.” (Wilks, page 50)
The most intriguing part of that last piece of prose is “...of my own free will...” Free will is mentioned just four times throughout the novel but this is the only time it appears in an active sense. Free will has “agency” in this sentence. The young man is expressing free will more explicitly here than anywhere else in the work. Oddly, he is free to live a life of “remorse,” “nauseated,” “accustomed to everything.” That is this young man's free will. For some nebulous reason, this deeply troubled me.
Next comes a drunken dinner with several other young men, former classmates, to which he basically has to invite himself. The events surrounding the dinner itself, while mildly entertaining, are not particularly noteworthy. Afterwards, the young men rather spontaneously decide to all go to a brothel. I am fascinated by how Dostoevsky tip-toed around the subject of prostitution, offering only the vaguest of hints so the censors, who mutilated Chapter 10 of the first part which covered a far less controversial subject matter, would not do the same here in Part Two. Dostoevsky was daring and often scandalous with his subject matter in his best novels. In that sense Notes from Underground is certainly not as much of a failure as Dostoevsky apparently took it to be. The novella is daring and scandalous in its story and its two-part structure.
The young man is excited to go out to dinner with his old friends, even if he did have to invite himself. What's more, this excitement, so rare in this novel, seems to be a wider force in his life at this time. “Early next morning I leapt out of bed feeling terribly excited, as if everything would come to fruition right away. I believed that some radical turning-point in my life was approaching and was bound to come that very day. Whether it was through lack of experience, perhaps, but all my life it had struck me that whenever any external event occurred, even the most trivial, some radical change in my life would immediately take place.” (Wilks, page 62)
The pre-Underground Man is a man of hope, to this absurd extent. This, too, is wonderful parody. Every little thing that happens to his flat, boring, pathetic life is a possible “radical turning-point.” What's more, this turning-point is based upon a dinner with former classmates that despise him, as he does them. His despicable “friends” changed the time of their meal without telling the young man so he is an hour early, much to the laughter of the others. Enraged, he proceeds to get drunk on wine, which happens rather quickly since he never drinks. Then he notices that he is just sitting there drunk with no one noticing him. Rather comic.
The announcement of going to the brothel is made almost without mentioning of it. The young man is ignored by the others until he laughs at something one of them says in all seriousness. This fixes their attention on him briefly. He decides to get up and walk past them as if ignoring them, trying to “out-ignore” them I guess, which is hilarious. Zverkov, one of the young men, makes two simple declarations. This first is “‘Gentlemen!’ cried Zverkov, rising from the divan. ‘Let’s all go there – now!’ ‘Of course, of course!’ exclaimed the others.” (page 72) “‘Olympia’s all mine, gentlemen. Agreed?’ shouted Zverkov. ‘We won’t argue!’ they replied, laughing.” (page 73)
This is worth remarking upon. “There” is the designation for the brothel and it is repeated after the declaration. Our protagonist tries to borrow the necessary money and his friend is surprised that he is going “there” with them. When he secures the money the young man humorously yells “There!” as if summoning himself for a heroic quest. Ridiculous! The young man repeats his cries of “There!” twice more which only expands the silliness of his “radical life-changing” event.
The choice of the name “Olympia” is indicative of what was considered a common and obvious name for a prostitute at that time (as in "mount" Olympia). It also happens to be the title of an infamous 1863 painting by Édouard Manet of a prostitute lounging nude looking directly and unashamedly at the viewer. As far as I can tell, Dostoevsky was in no way influenced Manet's name choice. In fact, it is doubtful he even knew much about the painting. It is rather, as I said, a common name, a living trope in 1864. Everyone understands what “Olympia” is once her name is uttered at the end of the dinner.
Chapter 5 of the second part deals with the young man's arrival at the brothel. It is interesting how Dostoevsky conveys a sense of atmosphere and foreboding in this section from a first-person perspective. His inferences indicate that the narrator has been here before. His would-be friends have left him by now – he is not noticed by them any more than the police officer took note of him. This passage also captures the sense of isolation and depravity that he expresses more fully in Part One. He sees himself as “repulsive” and likes it that way.
“I walked rapidly through the dark shop into the familiar drawing-room, where there was only one candle burning, and stood still in amazement: there was no one there. “Where are they?” I asked somebody. But by now, of course, they had separated. Before me was standing a person with a stupid smile, the “madam” herself, who had seen me before. A minute later a door opened and another person came in. Taking no notice of anything I strode about the room, and, I believe, I talked to myself. I felt as though I had been saved from death and was conscious of this, joyfully, all over: I should have given that slap, I should certainly, certainly have given it! But now they were not here and ... everything had vanished and changed! I looked round. I could not realise my condition yet. I looked mechanically at the girl who had come in: and had a glimpse of a fresh, young, rather pale face, with straight, dark eyebrows, and with grave, as it were wondering, eyes that attracted me at once; I should have hated her if she had been smiling. I began looking at her more intently and, as it were, with effort. I had not fully collected my thoughts. There was something simple and good-natured in her face, but something strangely grave. I am sure that this stood in her way here, and no one of those fools had noticed her. She could not, however, have been called a beauty, though she was tall, strong-looking, and well built. She was very simply dressed. Something loathsome stirred within me. I went straight up to her. I chanced to look into the glass. My harassed face struck me as revolting in the extreme, pale, angry, abject, with dishevelled hair. “No matter, I am glad of it,” I thought; “I am glad that I shall seem repulsive to her; I like that.”” (Garnett, 2, 5)
We learn that the girl's name is Liza. It is during his exchange with her that we are given the most (in)direct mention of sex when he awakes in bed with her after the act. “I recalled, too, that during those two hours I had not said a single word to this creature, and had, in fact, considered it utterly superfluous; in fact, the silence had for some reason gratified me. Now I suddenly realised vividly the hideous idea — revolting as a spider — of vice, which, without love, grossly and shamelessly begins with that in which true love finds its consummation.” (2, 6) In more direct words, they had emotionless sex. This was not censored.
In what is just as ridiculous and absurd as anything else in the novel, the young man decides in his post-coital confusion that this is a great opportunity to lecture the prostitute he just copulated with about the harmfulness of her profession to herself. The man's actions are often irrational and self-contradictory, reflecting his deep psychological turmoil. Going to a brothel to lecture a prostitute on the harm of her profession is both ridiculous and tragic, illustrating the complexity of his character and the internal conflicts that drive him.
The Underground Man is so deeply alienated from society and from himself that even when he seeks comfort or human contact, he does so in the most counterproductive ways. Instead of simply seeking companionship or physical satisfaction, he turns the encounter with Liza into a moralistic lecture, trying to impose some sense of superiority over her. But this, too, is an act of self-sabotage, as it’s clear he’s projecting his own guilt, shame, and failure onto her. In the process we learn something else about him: “I grew up without any family – that’s certainly why I turned out the way I am – without feelings.’” (Wilks, page 85).
His lecture to Liza also demonstrates his contradictory nature: while he claims to reject social norms and moral superiority, he tries to "save" Liza from her life of prostitution, positioning himself as a moral authority. He simultaneously craves intimacy and connection but also undermines it through his need to dominate and degrade the very person he's trying to "help." It’s a perfect example of his fractured psychology and his inability to genuinely relate to others.
This absurdity—of going to a brothel only to lecture someone—is part of what makes the Underground Man such a paradoxical and fascinating character. He's constantly torn between opposing impulses, unable to escape his own contradictions. It should be noted there is no sexual passion in him at all. Perhaps he was just going along to be part of the drunken gang, which promptly deserted him.
The lecture becomes cruelty for Liza. Then we are treated Dostoevsky's most impassioned prose in the work. It doesn't take a lot of imagination to turn this into an R-rated text: “She lay there prone, her face buried in the pillow, clasping it with both hands. Her bosom was heaving. Her whole young body was violently shaking, as if she were having convulsions. Stifled sobs constricted her chest, then they rent it – and suddenly they broke free in wails and shrieks. And then she pressed her face even more firmly against the pillow: she didn’t want anyone there, not a single living soul, to know of her sufferings and tears. She bit the pillow, bit her hand until it bled (I noticed this later), clutching at her tangled plaits and weakening from the effort, holding her breath and clenching her teeth.” (page 94) It is easy to grasp the intensity of this moment. The sex might be subdued (practically nonexistent) but Liza's reaction to a critique of her newly chose profession is not.
The pre-Underground Man is almost immediately ashamed of his abrasive lecture and her reaction. He begs her forgiveness and gives her his address, asking her to call on him. Liza takes a moment to share with the young man a letter from a student that she used to be in a relationship with. The young man feels pity for her for showing him “her only treasure.” What a tragic desperate situation he just slept with! He is repulsed by the whole thing and his life is filled with dread over the next several days that Liza might actually visit him after he leaves.
Ultimately, she does, of course. Wilks tells us that, after days of tormenting himself over whether she would come and not wanting her to come and then fantasizing that she will be his wife, he greets her “...crushed, disgraced, sickeningly embarrassed – and, I think, smiling and making a concerted effort to wrap the skirts of my ragged old quilted dressing-gown around me – well, in every respect, exactly as I imagined shortly before, when my spirits were so low.” (page 106)
Nevertheless, in perfect irrationality, he proceeds to insult Liza. He claims he was “laughing inside” when he treated her badly the other night. Liza, however, does not respond as he expects or intends. This inadvertently reveals “the wall” of isolation he has built around himself with books and dreams...
“But then something very odd happened. I was so used to thinking and imagining things as they happened in books and picturing everything in the world as I myself had previously created it in my dreams, that at first I couldn’t understand that strange event. What happened was this: Liza, whom I had so humiliated and crushed, understood a lot more than I imagined. She understood from all this what a woman will always understand first and foremost if she loves sincerely, namely, that I myself was unhappy.” (page 111) He is aware that she has empathy for him. This turns explosive.
“Suddenly, on some kind of irresistible impulse, she leapt from her chair and then, her whole body straining towards me – timidly, though, and without daring to move from her seat – she held out her arms to me … At this point my heart too turned over. Then she suddenly rushed towards me, threw her arms around my neck and burst into tears. I couldn’t hold myself back either and sobbed as I had never sobbed before …” (page 112)
He thinks Liza has come to him because he was briefly (and self-contradictory) “sentimental” with her the other night when he delivered his lecture to her about the harms of her profession. But, just as abruptly as everything else in this episode, he realizes, too late, that she came to him for another reason entirely and the realization of it shakes him to his core when he sees himself as “out of touch.”
“Even in my underground dreams I did not imagine love except as a struggle. I began it always with hatred and ended it with moral subjugation, and afterwards I never knew what to do with the subjugated object. And what is there to wonder at in that, since I had succeeded in so corrupting myself, since I was so out of touch with “real life,” as to have actually thought of reproaching her, and putting her to shame for having come to me to hear “fine sentiments”; and did not even guess that she had come not to hear fine sentiments, but to love me, because to a woman all reformation, all salvation from any sort of ruin, and all moral renewal is included in love and can only show itself in that form.” (Garnett, 2, 10)
Then we get one last jab at a reasoned approach to life, in an attempt to justify his harsh but passionless actions toward Liza. “But this I can say for certain: though I did that cruel thing purposely, it was not an impulse from the heart, but came from my evil brain. This cruelty was so affected, so purposely made up, so completely a product of the brain, of books...” (2, 10) But he cannot help himself. He drives Liza away, trying to pay her for her visit. She does not accept the money. He never sees her again.
Dostoevsky's main point crystallizes in this moment: true humanity lies not in intellectual prowess or rational calculation, but in the capacity for genuine emotion, empathy, and connection. The younger man, for all his philosophizing and self-analysis, is in the process of retreating so far into his irrational underground that he will ultimately lose touch with these fundamental aspects of human experience. Liza, despite her lowly position (or perhaps because of it), retains her humanity and the ability to connect authentically with others. In fact, it can be reliably stated that Liza is the most humane character in Notes from Underground.
The conclusion of the novel, with the (future) Underground Man left in utter isolation after Liza's departure, strikes me as a damning indictment of his own philosophy and lifestyle. His rejection of genuine human connection, embodied in his “cruel” treatment toward Liza and his inability to accept (or recognize) her compassion, has placed him in a state of complete alienation. This isolation is not a triumph of individualism, as the he might claim, but a tragedy of human disconnection. This is very troubling to me. It gives the novel a haunting quality.
Dostoevsky concludes this short work thus: “Leave us alone without books and we shall be lost and in confusion at once. We shall not know what to join on to, what to cling to, what to love and what to hate, what to respect and what to despise. We are oppressed at being men — men with a real individual body and blood, we are ashamed of it, we think it a disgrace and try to contrive to be some sort of impossible generalised man. We are stillborn, and for generations past have been begotten, not by living fathers, and that suits us better and better. We are developing a taste for it. Soon we shall contrive to be born somehow from an idea.” (2, 10)
What are we to make of this passage? It offers a scathing commentary on the human condition and contemporary society. When the narrator suggests we'd be lost without books, he's pointing to our deep dependence on reason for meaning and direction - a dependence that reveals our inability to navigate life through pure individual experience.
What makes this passage particularly haunting is its articulation of a profound identity crisis. The Underground Man is caught in an impossible situation. He's ashamed of his physical, individual existence and desperately trying to avoid being transformed into some kind of “impossible generalized man” which we now call “consumer markets.” Dostoevsky did not realize (or fully anticipate) we have become generalized and categorized. We are, quite clearly today far more so than in 1864, consumer targets of marketing systems and convenience. We are all part of differing target markets, not generalized in our totality but generalized into little buckets that are revealed in our behavior.
The passage becomes even more disturbing as it describes this condition worsening over generations, which is precisely what had happened due to the evolution of the very forces I just mentioned. We are "stillborn," disconnected from "living fathers," suggesting each generation becomes more removed from authentic existence (and into consumerism, though this is not Dostoevsky's point specifically). Most troubling is that we're developing a taste for this artificial (consumer) state - we're not just victims of this condition but we were beginning to prefer it in his day. This disturbed him.
The final line about being "born somehow from an idea" is a chilling prophecy. Dostoevsky is likely referring specifically to the rationalist, utopian ideals that were gaining prominence in 19th century Russia, particularly through the influence of Western European thought. The "idea" he's targeting most directly would be the socialist and materialist philosophies that were becoming popular among Russian intellectuals of his time.
According to Frank (page 414) and Mochulsky (page 251), Notes from Underground was a parody written as a rebuttal to Nikolai Chernyshevsky's novel What Is to Be Done? which promoted a rationalist, utilitarian vision of human progress. Chernyshevsky and others believed that once people understood their true rational interests through scientific materialism, they would naturally create a perfect socialist society. This seems naive today, of course, but it was more widely accepted in 1864.
When Dostoevsky writes about being "born from an idea," he's mocking this belief that human nature could be perfected through rational social engineering. He sees these philosophies as attempting to reduce the messy, irrational, spiritual aspects of human nature into a neat scientific formula. The "idea" represents this attempt to remake humanity according to pure reason and materialist principles. Dostoevsky thought this was a dangerous folly.
"Born from an idea" is the sardonic culmination of the Underground Man's extended parody of rationalist utopianism. Throughout the entire work, he's been mocking the notion that humans can be reduced to rational formulas - at one point he even sarcastically suggests that once science discovers all our mental "keyboard keys," we'll simply act according to mathematical tables and schedules. Sounds a bit like how algorithms and the social media works on us, but that's off-topic, except to point the novel's compelling relevance.
The genius of Dostoevsky's parody here is how he takes the rationalist project to its logical but absurd conclusion. The Underground Man has spent the whole novel demonstrating how humans will act against their own interests just to prove they're free, how we're driven by spite and contradiction, how we sometimes prefer suffering to comfort - and then he ends with this mockery of the idea that such creatures could ever be reduced to pure rational principles.
There's a bitter humor in how he says this development "suits us better and better" and we're "developing a taste for it" - it's the Underground Man's way of saying we're becoming so divorced from our actual human nature (or that our nature is changing, which is prescient, I think) that we're starting to prefer the artificial construct to the real thing. It's parody that cuts deep because it identifies something genuinely troubling about our contemporary direction.
Though primarily an experiment for Dostoevsky, Notes from Underground is nevertheless a profound exploration of what it means to be human. Through the contrast between the Underground Man's isolation and Liza's capacity for connection, Dostoevsky urges us to consider the cost of divorcing our intellectual lives from our emotional realities. Of course, Dostoevsky couches this in a false choice as I pointed out in Part One, the rational does not have to be to the exclusion of the irrational. The short novel is, nevertheless, a discerning, unflinching portrayal of the struggle for an authentically human way of being in our world.
(to be continued)
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