White Nights and Other Stories

Fyodor Dostoevsky

• Publisher: Youcanprint
• Year: 2018
• eBook ISBN: 9788827806944
• Topic: Letteratura
• Subtopic: Classici

"A whole moment of happiness! Is that too little for the whole of a man's life?" "White Nights" is a novella by Russian writer Fyodor Dostoevsky (1821-1881). First published in 1848, it was translated in English by Constance Garnett (1861–1946) in 1918. "White Nights" is a masterpiece of romantic love. It tells the story of a young man who lives in St. Petersburg and uses to walk alone all night long. One night, he encounters a girl, alone as him, named Nastenka… The novella has been adapted for the screen numerous times, including the 2008 movie "Two Lovers", starring Gwyneth Paltrow.

PART I- underground

I

I am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractiveman. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at allabout my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don'tconsult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respectfor medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious,sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educatedenough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, Irefuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will notunderstand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can'texplain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by myspite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" thedoctors by not consulting them; I know better than any one that byall this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if Idon't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad,well—let it get worse!

[1]The author of the diary and the diary itself are, of course,imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the writerof these notes not only may, but positively must, exist in oursociety, when we consider the circumstances in the midst of whichour society is formed. I have tried to expose to the view of thepublic more distinctly than is commonly done, one of the charactersof the recent past. He is one of the representatives of ageneration 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 hisappearance and was bound to make his appearance in our midst. Inthe second fragment there are added the actual notes of this personconcerning certain events in his life.—Author's Note.

I have been going on like that for a long time—twentyyears. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, butam no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and tookpleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so I wasbound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, but Iwill not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound verywitty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to showoff in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!)

When petitioners used to come for information to the table atwhich I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intenseenjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody unhappy. I almostalways did succeed. For the most part they were all timidpeople—of course, they were petitioners. But of the uppishones there was one officer in particular I could not endure. Hesimply would not be humble, and clanked his sword in a disgustingway. I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months over thatsword. 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 myspite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the factthat continually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I wasinwardly conscious with shame that I was not only not a spitefulbut not evenan embittered man, that I was simply scaring sparrowsat random and amusing myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, butbring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar init, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be genuinelytouched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myselfafterwards and lie awake at night with shame for months after. Thatwas my way.

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 thepetitioners and with the officer, and in reality I never couldbecome spiteful. I was conscious every moment in myself of many,very many elements absolutely opposite to that. I felt thempositively swarming in me, these opposite elements. I knew thatthey had been swarming in me all my life and craving some outletfrom me, but I would not let them, would not let them, purposelywould not let them come out. They tormented me till I was ashamed:they drove me to convulsions and—sickened me, at last, howthey sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen, that I amexpressing remorse for something now, that I am asking yourforgiveness for something? I am sure you are fancying that....However, I assure you I do not care if you are....

It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not knowhow to become anything: neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascalnor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am livingout my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful anduseless consolation that an intelligent man cannot become anythingseriously, and it is only the fool who becomes anything. Yes, a manin the nineteenth century must and morally ought to bepre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of character, anactive man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is myconviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you knowforty years is a whole life-time; 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. Iwill tell you who do: fools and worthless fellows. I tell all oldmen that to their face, all these venerable old men, all thesesilver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the whole world that toits face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on living tosixty myself. To seventy! To eighty!... Stay, let me takebreath....

You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you. Youare mistaken in that, too. I am by no means such a mirthful personas you imagine, or as you may imagine; however, irritated by allthis babble (and I feel that you are irritated) you think fit toask me who am I—then my answer is, I am a collegiateassessor.I was in the service that I might have something to eat (and solelyfor that reason), and when last year a distant relation left me sixthousand roubles in his will I immediately retired from the serviceand settled down in my corner. I used to live in this cornerbefore, 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 oldcountry-woman, ill-natured from stupidity, and, moreover, there isalways a nasty smell about her. I am told that the Petersburgclimate is bad for me, and that with my small means it is veryexpensive to live in Petersburg. I know all that better than allthese sage and experienced counsellors and monitors.... But I amremaining in Petersburg; I am not going away from Petersburg! I amnot going away because ... ech! Why, it is absolutely no matterwhether I am going away or not going away.

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

Answer: Of himself.

Well, so I will talk about myself.

II

I want now to tell you, gentlemen, whether you care to hear itor not, why I could not even become an insect. I tell you solemnly,that I have many times tried to become an insect. But I was notequal even to that. I swear, gentlemen, that to be too conscious isan illness—a real thorough-going illness. For man's everydayneeds, it would have been quite enough to have the ordinary humanconsciousness, that is, half or a quarter of the amount which fallsto the lot of a cultivated man of our unhappy nineteenth century,especially one who has the fatal ill-luck to inhabit Petersburg,the most theoretical and intentional town on the whole terrestrialglobe. (There are intentional and unintentional towns.) It wouldhave been quite enough, for instance, to have the consciousness bywhich all so-called direct persons and men of action live. I betyou think I am writing all this from affectation, to be witty atthe expense of men of action; and what is more, that from ill-bredaffectation, I am clanking a sword like my officer. But, gentlemen,whoever can pride himself on his diseases and even swagger overthem?

Though, after all, every one does do that; people do pridethemselves on their diseases, and I do, may be, more than any one.We will not dispute it; my contention was absurd. But yet I amfirmly persuaded that a great deal of consciousness, every sort ofconsciousness, in fact, is a disease. I stick to that. Let us leavethat, too, for a minute. Tell me this: why does it happen that atthe very, yes, at the very moments when I am most capable offeeling every refinement of all that is "good and beautiful," asthey used to say at one time, it would, as though of design, happento me not only to feel but to do such ugly things, such that....Well, in short, actions that all, perhaps, commit; but which, asthough purposely, occurred to me at the very time when I was mostconscious that they ought not to be committed. The more conscious Iwas of goodness and of all that was "good and beautiful," the moredeeply I sank into my mire and the more ready I was to sink in italtogether. But the chief point was that all this was, as it were,not accidental in me, but as though it were bound to be so. It wasas though it were my most normal condition, and not in the leastdisease or depravity, so that at last all desire in me to struggleagainst this depravity passed. It ended by my almost believing(perhaps actually believing) that this was perhaps my normalcondition. But at first, in the beginning, what agonies I enduredin that struggle! I did not believe it was the same with otherpeople, and all my life I hid this fact about myself as a secret. Iwas ashamed (even now, perhaps, I am ashamed): I got to the pointof feeling a sort of secret abnormal, despicable enjoyment inreturning home to my corner on some disgusting Petersburg night,acutely conscious that that day I had committed a loathsome actionagain, that what was done could never be undone, and secretly,inwardly gnawing, gnawing atmyself for it, tearing and consumingmyself till at last the bitterness turned into a sort of shamefulaccursed sweetness, and at last—into positive real enjoyment!Yes, into enjoyment, into enjoyment! I insist upon that. I havespoken of this because I keep wanting to know for a fact whetherother people feel such enjoyment? I will explain; the enjoyment wasjust from the too intense consciousness of one's own degradation;it was from feeling oneself that one had reached the last barrier,that it was horrible, but that it could not be otherwise; thatthere was no escape for you; that you never could become adifferent man; that even if time and faith were still left you tochange into something different you would most likely not wish tochange; or if you did wish to, even then you would do nothing;because perhaps in reality there was nothing for you to changeinto.

And the worst of it was, and the root of it all, that it was allin accord with the normal fundamental laws of over-acuteconsciousness, and with the inertia that was the direct result ofthose laws, and that consequently one was not only unable to changebut could do absolutely nothing. Thus it would follow, as theresult of acute consciousness, that one is not to blame in being ascoundrel; as though that were any consolation to the scoundrelonce he has come to realize that he actually is a scoundrel. Butenough.... Ech, I have talked a lot of nonsense, but what have Iexplained? How is enjoyment in this to be explained? But I willexplain it. I will get to the bottom of it! That is why I havetaken up my pen....

I, for instance, have a great deal ofamour propre. I am assuspicious and prone to take offence as a humpback or a dwarf. Butupon my word I sometimes have had moments when if I had happened tobe slapped in the face I should, perhaps, have been positively gladof it. I say, in earnest, that I should probably have been able todiscover even in that a peculiar sort of enjoyment—theenjoyment, of course, of despair; but in despair there are the mostintense enjoyments, especially when one is very acutely consciousof the hopelessness of one's position. And when one is slapped inthe face—why then the consciousness of being rubbed into apulp would positively overwhelm one. The worst of it is, look at itwhich way one will, it still turns out that I was always the mostto blame in everything. And what is most humiliating of all, toblame for no fault of my own but, so to say, through the laws ofnature. In the first place, to blame because I am cleverer than anyof the people surrounding me. (I have always considered myselfcleverer than any of the people surrounding me, and sometimes,would you believe it, have been positively ashamed of it. At anyrate, I have all my life, as it were, turned my eyes away and nevercould look people straight in the face.) To blame, finally, becauseeven if I had had magnanimity, I should only have had moresuffering from the sense of its uselessness. I should certainlyhave never been able to do anything from beingmagnanimous—neither to forgive, for my assailant wouldperhaps have slapped me from the laws of nature, and one cannotforgive the laws of nature; nor to forget, for even if it wereowing to the laws of nature, it is insulting all the same. Finally,even if I had wanted to be anything but magnanimous, had desired onthe contrary to revenge myself on my assailant, I could not haverevenged myself on any one for anything because I should certainlynever have made up my mind to do anything, even if I had been ableto. Why should I not have made up my mind? About that in particularI want to say a few words.

III

With people who know how to revenge themselves and to stand upfor themselves in general, how is it done? Why, when they arepossessed, let us suppose, by the feeling of revenge, then for thetime there is nothing else but that feeling left in their wholebeing. Such a gentleman simply dashes straight for his object likean infuriated bull with its horns down, and nothing but a wall willstop him. (By the way: facing the wall, such gentlemen—thatis, the "direct" persons and men of action—are genuinelynonplussed. For them a wall is not an evasion, as for us people whothink and consequently do nothing; it is not an excuse for turningaside, an excuse for which we are always very glad, though wescarcely believe in it ourselves, as a rule. No, they arenonplussed in all sincerity. The wall has for them somethingtranquillizing, morally soothing, final—maybe even somethingmysterious ... but of the wall later.)

Well, such a direct person I regard as the real normal man, ashis tender mother nature wished to see him when she graciouslybrought him into being on the earth. I envy such a man till I amgreen in the face. He is stupid. I am not disputing that, butperhaps the normal man should be stupid, how do you know? Perhapsit is very beautiful, in fact. And I am the more persuaded of thatsuspicion, if one can call it so, by the fact that if you take, forinstance, the antithesis of the normal man, that is, the man ofacute consciousness, who has come, of course, not out of the lap ofnature but out of a retort (this is almost mysticism, gentlemen,but I suspect this, too), this retort-made man is sometimes sononplussed in the presence of his antithesis that with all hisexaggerated consciousness he genuinely thinks of himself as a mouseand not a man. It may be an acutely conscious mouse, yet it is amouse, while the other is a man, and therefore, et cætera, etcætera. And the worst of it is, he himself, his very own self,looks on himself as a mouse; no one asks him to do so; and that isan important point. Now let us look at this mouse in action. Let ussuppose, for instance, that it feels insulted, too (and it almostalways does feel insulted), and wants to revenge itself, too. Theremay even be a greater accumulation of spite in it than inl'homme dela nature et de la vérité. The base and nasty desire tovent that spite on its assailant rankles perhaps even more nastilyin it than inl'homme de la nature et de la vérité. Forthrough his innate stupidity the latter looks upon his revenge asjustice pure and simple; while in consequence of his acuteconsciousness the mouse does not believe in the justice of it. Tocome at last to the deed itself, to the very act of revenge. Apartfrom the one fundamental nastiness the luckless mouse succeeds increating around it so many other nastinesses in the form of doubtsand questions, adds to the one question so many unsettled questionsthat there inevitably works up around it a sort of fatal brew, astinking mess, made up of its doubts, emotions, and of the contemptspat upon it by the direct men of action who stand solemnly aboutit as judges and arbitrators, laughing at it till their healthysides ache. Of course the only thing left for it is to dismiss allthat with a wave of its paw, and, with a smile of assumed contemptin which it does not even itself believe, creep ignominiously intoits mouse-hole. There in its nasty, stinking, underground home ourinsulted, crushed and ridiculed mouse promptly becomes absorbed incold, malignant and, above all, everlasting spite. For forty yearstogether it will remember its injury down to thesmallest, mostignominious details, and every time will add, of itself, detailsstill more ignominious, spitefully teasing and tormenting itselfwith its own imagination. It will itself be ashamed of itsimaginings, but yet it will recall it all, it will go over and overevery detail, it will invent unheard of things against itself,pretending that those things might happen, and will forgivenothing. Maybe it will begin to revenge itself, too, but, as itwere, piecemeal, in trivial ways, from behind the stove, incognito,without believing either in its own right to vengeance, or in thesuccess of its revenge, knowing that from all its efforts atrevenge it will suffer a hundred times more than he on whom itrevenges itself, while he, I daresay, will not even scratchhimself. On its deathbed it will recall it all over again, withinterest accumulated over all the years and....

But it is just in that cold, abominable half despair, halfbelief, in that conscious burying oneself alive for grief in theunderworld for forty years, in that acutely recognized and yetpartly doubtful hopelessness of one's position, in that hell ofunsatisfied desires turned inward, in that fever of oscillations,of resolutions determined for ever and repented of again a minutelater—that the savour of that strange enjoyment of which Ihave spoken lies. It is so subtle, so difficult of analysis, thatpersons who are a little limited, or even simply persons of strongnerves, will not understand a single atom of it. "Possibly," youwill add on your own account with a grin, "people will notunderstand it either who have never received a slap in the face,"and in that way you will politely hint to me that I, too, perhaps,have had the experience of a slap in the face in my life, and so Ispeak as one who knows. I bet that you are thinking that. But setyour minds at rest, gentlemen, I have not received a slap in theface, though it is absolutely a matter of indifference to me whatyou may think about it. Possibly, I even regret, myself, that Ihave given so few slaps in the face during my life. But enough ...not another word on that subject of such extreme interest toyou.

I will continue calmly concerning persons with strong nerves whodo not understand a certain refinement of enjoyment. Though incertain circumstances these gentlemen bellow their loudest likebulls, though this, let us suppose, does them the greatest credit,yet, as I have said already, confronted with the impossible theysubside at once. The impossible means the stone wall! What stonewall? Why, of course, the laws of nature, the deductions of naturalscience, mathematics. As soon as they prove to you, for instance,that you are descended from a monkey, then it is no use scowling,accept it for a fact. When they prove to you that in reality onedrop of your own fat must be dearer to you than a hundred thousandof your fellow creatures, and that this conclusion is the finalsolution of all so-called virtues and duties and all suchprejudices and fancies, then you have just to accept it, there isno help for it, for twice two is a law of mathematics. Just tryrefuting it.

"Upon my word, they will shout at you, it is no use protesting:it is a case of twice two makes four! Nature does not ask yourpermission, she has nothing to do with your wishes, and whether youlike her laws or dislike them, you are bound to accept her as sheis, and consequently all her conclusions. A wall, you see, is awall ... and so on, and so on."

Merciful Heavens! but what do I care for the laws of nature andarithmetic, when, for some reason I dislike those laws and the factthat twice two makes four? Of course I cannot break through thewall by battering my head against it if I really have not thestrength to knock itdown, but I am not going to be reconciled to itsimply because it is a stone wall and I have not the strength.

As though such a stone wall really were a consolation, andreally did contain some word of conciliation, simply because it isas true as twice two makes four. Oh, absurdity of absurdities! Howmuch better it is to understand it all, to recognize it all, allthe impossibilities and the stone wall; not to be reconciled to oneof those impossibilities and stone walls if it disgusts you to bereconciled to it; by the way of the most inevitable, logicalcombinations to reach the most revolting conclusions on theeverlasting theme, that even for the stone wall you are yourselfsomehow to blame, though again it is as clear as day you are not toblame in the least, and therefore grinding your teeth in silentimpotence to sink into luxurious inertia, brooding on the fact thatthere is no one even for you to feel vindictive against, that youhave not, and perhaps never will have, an object for your spite,that it is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, a card-sharper'strick, that it is simply a mess, no knowing what and no knowingwho, but in spite of all these uncertainties and jugglings, stillthere is an ache in you, and the more you do not know, the worsethe ache.

IV

"Ha, ha, ha! You will be finding enjoyment in toothache next,"you cry, with a laugh.

"Well? Even in toothache there is enjoyment," I answer. I hadtoothache for a whole month and I know there is. In that case, ofcourse, people are not spiteful in silence, but moan; but they arenot candid moans, they are malignant moans, and the malignancy isthe whole point. The enjoyment of the sufferer finds expression inthose moans; if he did not feel enjoyment in them he would notmoan. It is a good example, gentlemen, and I will develop it. Thosemoans express in the first place all the aimlessness of your pain,which is so humiliating to your consciousness; the whole legalsystem of nature on which you spit disdainfully, of course, butfrom which you suffer all the same while she does not. They expressthe consciousness that you have no enemy to punish, but that youhave pain; the consciousness that in spite of all possibleVagenheims you are in complete slavery to your teeth; that if someone wishes it, your teeth will leave off aching, and if he doesnot, they will go on aching another three months; and that finallyif you are still contumacious and still protest, all that is leftyou for your own gratification is to thrash yourself or beat yourwall with your fist as hard as you can, and absolutely nothingmore. Well, these mortal insults, these jeers on the part of someone unknown, end at last in an enjoyment which sometimes reachesthe highest degree of voluptuousness. I ask you, gentlemen, listensometimes to the moans of an educated man of the nineteenth centurysuffering from toothache, on the second or third day of the attack,when he is beginning to moan, not as he moaned on the first day,that is, not simply because he has toothache, not just as anycoarse peasant, but as a man affected by progress and Europeancivilization, a man who is "divorced from the soil and the nationalelements," as they express it now-a-days. Hismoans become nasty,disgustingly malignant, and go on for whole days and nights. And ofcourse he knows himself that he is doing himself no sort of goodwith his moans; he knows better than any one that he is onlylacerating and harassing himself and others for nothing; he knowsthat even the audience before whom he is making his efforts, andhis whole family, listen to him with loathing, do not put aha'porth of faith in him, and inwardly understand that he mightmoan differently, more simply, without trills and flourishes, andthat he is only amusing himself like that from ill-humour, frommalignancy. Well, in all these recognitions and disgraces it isthat there ...

Table of contents

• WHITE NIGHTS
• NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND
• PART I- underground
• PART II- à propos of the wet snow
• A FAINT HEART
• A CHRISTMAS TREE AND A WEDDING
• POLZUNKOV
• A LITTLE HERO
• MR. PROHARTCHIN