prompt:
Chapter: I had been certain the day before that I should be the first to arrive.
But it was not a question of being the first to arrive.  Not only were
they not there, but I had difficulty in finding our room.  The table
was not laid even.  What did it mean?  After a good many questions I
elicited from the waiters that the dinner had been ordered not for
five, but for six o'clock. This was confirmed at the buffet too.  I
felt really ashamed to go on questioning them.  It was only twenty-five
minutes past five.  If they changed the dinner hour they ought at least
to have let me know--that is what the post is for, and not to have put
me in an absurd position in my own eyes and ... and even before the
waiters.  I sat down; the servant began laying the table; I felt even
more humiliated when he was present. Towards six o'clock they brought
in candles, though there were lamps burning in the room.  It had not
occurred to the waiter, however, to bring them in at once when I
arrived.  In the next room two gloomy, angry-looking persons were
eating their dinners in silence at two different tables.  There was a
great deal of noise, even shouting, in a room further away; one could
hear the laughter of a crowd of people, and nasty little shrieks in
French: there were ladies at the dinner.  It was sickening, in fact. I
rarely passed more unpleasant moments, so much so that when they did
arrive all together punctually at six I was overjoyed to see them, as
though they were my deliverers, and even forgot that it was incumbent
upon me to show resentment.

Zverkov walked in at the head of them; evidently he was the leading
spirit.  He and all of them were laughing; but, seeing me, Zverkov drew
himself up a little, walked up to me deliberately with a slight, rather
jaunty bend from the waist.  He shook hands with me in a friendly, but
not over-friendly, fashion, with a sort of circumspect courtesy like
that of a General, as though in giving me his hand he were warding off
something.  I had imagined, on the contrary, that on coming in he would
at once break into his habitual thin, shrill laugh and fall to making
his insipid jokes and witticisms.  I had been preparing for them ever
since the previous day, but I had not expected such condescension, such
high-official courtesy.  So, then, he felt himself ineffably superior
to me in every respect!  If he only meant to insult me by that
high-official tone, it would not matter, I thought--I could pay him
back for it one way or another.  But what if, in reality, without the
least desire to be offensive, that sheepshead had a notion in earnest
that he was superior to me and could only look at me in a patronising
way?  The very supposition made me gasp.

"I was surprised to hear of your desire to join us," he began, lisping
and drawling, which was something new.  "You and I seem to have seen
nothing of one another.  You fight shy of us.  You shouldn't.  We are
not such terrible people as you think.  Well, anyway, I am glad to
renew our acquaintance."

And he turned carelessly to put down his hat on the window.

"Have you been waiting long?" Trudolyubov inquired.

"I arrived at five o'clock as you told me yesterday," I answered aloud,
with an irritability that threatened an explosion.

"Didn't you let him know that we had changed the hour?" said
Trudolyubov to Simonov.

"No, I didn't.  I forgot," the latter replied, with no sign of regret,
and without even apologising to me he went off to order the HORS
D'OEUVRE.

"So you've been here a whole hour?  Oh, poor fellow!" Zverkov cried
ironically, for to his notions this was bound to be extremely funny.
That rascal Ferfitchkin followed with his nasty little snigger like a
puppy yapping. My position struck him, too, as exquisitely ludicrous
and embarrassing.

"It isn't funny at all!" I cried to Ferfitchkin, more and more
irritated. "It wasn't my fault, but other people's.  They neglected to
let me know.  It was ... it was ... it was simply absurd."

"It's not only absurd, but something else as well," muttered
Trudolyubov, naively taking my part.  "You are not hard enough upon it.
It was simply rudeness--unintentional, of course.  And how could
Simonov ... h'm!"

"If a trick like that had been played on me," observed Ferfitchkin, "I
should ..."

"But you should have ordered something for yourself," Zverkov
interrupted, "or simply asked for dinner without waiting for us."

"You will allow that I might have done that without your permission," I
rapped out.  "If I waited, it was ..."

"Let us sit down, gentlemen," cried Simonov, coming in.  "Everything is
ready; I can answer for the champagne; it is capitally frozen....  You
see, I did not know your address, where was I to look for you?" he
suddenly turned to me, but again he seemed to avoid looking at me.
Evidently he had something against me.  It must have been what happened
yesterday.

All sat down; I did the same.  It was a round table.  Trudolyubov was
on my left, Simonov on my right, Zverkov was sitting opposite,
Ferfitchkin next to him, between him and Trudolyubov.

"Tell me, are you ... in a government office?" Zverkov went on
attending to me.  Seeing that I was embarrassed he seriously thought
that he ought to be friendly to me, and, so to speak, cheer me up.

"Does he want me to throw a bottle at his head?" I thought, in a fury.
In my novel surroundings I was unnaturally ready to be irritated.

"In the N---- office," I answered jerkily, with my eyes on my plate.

"And ha-ave you a go-od berth?  I say, what ma-a-de you leave your
original job?"

"What ma-a-de me was that I wanted to leave my original job," I drawled
more than he, hardly able to control myself.  Ferfitchkin went off into
a guffaw.  Simonov looked at me ironically.  Trudolyubov left off
eating and began looking at me with curiosity.

Zverkov winced, but he tried not to notice it.

"And the remuneration?"

"What remuneration?"

"I mean, your sa-a-lary?"

"Why are you cross-examining me?" However, I told him at once what my
salary was.  I turned horribly red.

"It is not very handsome," Zverkov observed majestically.

"Yes, you can't afford to dine at cafes on that," Ferfitchkin added
insolently.

"To my thinking it's very poor," Trudolyubov observed gravely.

"And how thin you have grown!  How you have changed!" added Zverkov,
with a shade of venom in his voice, scanning me and my attire with a
sort of insolent compassion.

"Oh, spare his blushes," cried Ferfitchkin, sniggering.

"My dear sir, allow me to tell you I am not blushing," I broke out at
last; "do you hear?  I am dining here, at this cafe, at my own expense,
not at other people's--note that, Mr. Ferfitchkin."

"Wha-at?  Isn't every one here dining at his own expense?  You would
seem to be ..."  Ferfitchkin flew out at me, turning as red as a
lobster, and looking me in the face with fury.

"Tha-at," I answered, feeling I had gone too far, "and I imagine it
would be better to talk of something more intelligent."

"You intend to show off your intelligence, I suppose?"

"Don't disturb yourself, that would be quite out of place here."

"Why are you clacking away like that, my good sir, eh?  Have you gone
out of your wits in your office?"

"Enough, gentlemen, enough!" Zverkov cried, authoritatively.

"How stupid it is!" muttered Simonov.

"It really is stupid.  We have met here, a company of friends, for a
farewell dinner to a comrade and you carry on an altercation," said
Trudolyubov, rudely addressing himself to me alone.  "You invited
yourself to join us, so don't disturb the general harmony."

"Enough, enough!" cried Zverkov.  "Give over, gentlemen, it's out of
place.  Better let me tell you how I nearly got married the day before
yesterday...."

And then followed a burlesque narrative of how this gentleman had
almost been married two days before.  There was not a word about the
marriage, however, but the story was adorned with generals, colonels
and kammer-junkers, while Zverkov almost took the lead among them.  It
was greeted with approving laughter; Ferfitchkin positively squealed.

No one paid any attention to me, and I sat crushed and humiliated.

"Good Heavens, these are not the people for me!" I thought.  "And what
a fool I have made of myself before them!  I let Ferfitchkin go too
far, though.  The brutes imagine they are doing me an honour in letting
me sit down with them.  They don't understand that it's an honour to
them and not to me!  I've grown thinner!  My clothes!  Oh, damn my
trousers! Zverkov noticed the yellow stain on the knee as soon as he
came in....  But what's the use!  I must get up at once, this very
minute, take my hat and simply go without a word ... with contempt!
And tomorrow I can send a challenge.  The scoundrels!  As though I
cared about the seven roubles.  They may think....  Damn it!  I don't
care about the seven roubles.  I'll go this minute!"

Of course I remained.  I drank sherry and Lafitte by the glassful in my
discomfiture.  Being unaccustomed to it, I was quickly affected.  My
annoyance increased as the wine went to my head.  I longed all at once
to insult them all in a most flagrant manner and then go away.  To
seize the moment and show what I could do, so that they would say,
"He's clever, though he is absurd," and ... and ... in fact, damn them
all!

I scanned them all insolently with my drowsy eyes.  But they seemed to
have forgotten me altogether.  They were noisy, vociferous, cheerful.
Zverkov was talking all the time.  I began listening.  Zverkov was
talking of some exuberant lady whom he had at last led on to declaring
her love (of course, he was lying like a horse), and how he had been
helped in this affair by an intimate friend of his, a Prince Kolya, an
officer in the hussars, who had three thousand serfs.

"And yet this Kolya, who has three thousand serfs, has not put in an
appearance here tonight to see you off," I cut in suddenly.

For one minute every one was silent.  "You are drunk already."
Trudolyubov deigned to notice me at last, glancing contemptuously in my
direction.  Zverkov, without a word, examined me as though I were an
insect. I dropped my eyes.  Simonov made haste to fill up the glasses
with champagne.

Trudolyubov raised his glass, as did everyone else but me.

"Your health and good luck on the journey!" he cried to Zverkov.  "To
old times, to our future, hurrah!"

They all tossed off their glasses, and crowded round Zverkov to kiss
him.  I did not move; my full glass stood untouched before me.

"Why, aren't you going to drink it?" roared Trudolyubov, losing
patience and turning menacingly to me.

"I want to make a speech separately, on my own account ... and then
I'll drink it, Mr. Trudolyubov."

"Spiteful brute!" muttered Simonov.  I drew myself up in my chair and
feverishly seized my glass, prepared for something extraordinary,
though I did not know myself precisely what I was going to say.

"SILENCE!" cried Ferfitchkin.  "Now for a display of wit!"

Zverkov waited very gravely, knowing what was coming.

"Mr. Lieutenant Zverkov," I began, "let me tell you that I hate
phrases, phrasemongers and men in corsets ... that's the first point,
and there is a second one to follow it."

There was a general stir.

"The second point is: I hate ribaldry and ribald talkers.  Especially
ribald talkers!  The third point: I love justice, truth and honesty."
I went on almost mechanically, for I was beginning to shiver with
horror myself and had no idea how I came to be talking like this.  "I
love thought, Monsieur Zverkov; I love true comradeship, on an equal
footing and not ... H'm ... I love ... But, however, why not?  I will
drink your health, too, Mr. Zverkov.  Seduce the Circassian girls,
shoot the enemies of the fatherland and ... and ... to your health,
Monsieur Zverkov!"

Zverkov got up from his seat, bowed to me and said:

"I am very much obliged to you."  He was frightfully offended and
turned pale.

"Damn the fellow!" roared Trudolyubov, bringing his fist down on the
table.

"Well, he wants a punch in the face for that," squealed Ferfitchkin.

"We ought to turn him out," muttered Simonov.

"Not a word, gentlemen, not a movement!" cried Zverkov solemnly,
checking the general indignation.  "I thank you all, but I can show him
for myself how much value I attach to his words."

"Mr.  Ferfitchkin, you will give me satisfaction tomorrow for your
words just now!" I said aloud, turning with dignity to Ferfitchkin.

"A duel, you mean?  Certainly," he answered.  But probably I was so
ridiculous as I challenged him and it was so out of keeping with my
appearance that everyone including Ferfitchkin was prostrate with
laughter.

"Yes, let him alone, of course!  He is quite drunk," Trudolyubov said
with disgust.

"I shall never forgive myself for letting him join us," Simonov
muttered again.

"Now is the time to throw a bottle at their heads," I thought to
myself. I picked up the bottle ... and filled my glass....  "No, I'd
better sit on to the end," I went on thinking; "you would be pleased,
my friends, if I went away.  Nothing will induce me to go.  I'll go on
sitting here and drinking to the end, on purpose, as a sign that I
don't think you of the slightest consequence.  I will go on sitting and
drinking, because this is a public-house and I paid my entrance money.
I'll sit here and drink, for I look upon you as so many pawns, as
inanimate pawns.  I'll sit here and drink ... and sing if I want to,
yes, sing, for I have the right to ... to sing ...  H'm!"

But I did not sing.  I simply tried not to look at any of them.  I
assumed most unconcerned attitudes and waited with impatience for them
to speak FIRST.  But alas, they did not address me!  And oh, how I
wished, how I wished at that moment to be reconciled to them!  It
struck eight, at last nine.  They moved from the table to the sofa.
Zverkov stretched himself on a lounge and put one foot on a round
table.  Wine was brought there. He did, as a fact, order three bottles
on his own account.  I, of course, was not invited to join them.  They
all sat round him on the sofa.  They listened to him, almost with
reverence.  It was evident that they were fond of him.  "What for?
What for?" I wondered.  From time to time they were moved to drunken
enthusiasm and kissed each other.  They talked of the Caucasus, of the
nature of true passion, of snug berths in the service, of the income of
an hussar called Podharzhevsky, whom none of them knew personally, and
rejoiced in the largeness of it, of the extraordinary grace and beauty
of a Princess D., whom none of them had ever seen; then it came to
Shakespeare's being immortal.

I smiled contemptuously and walked up and down the other side of the
room, opposite the sofa, from the table to the stove and back again.  I
tried my very utmost to show them that I could do without them, and yet
I purposely made a noise with my boots, thumping with my heels.  But it
was all in vain.  They paid no attention.  I had the patience to walk
up and down in front of them from eight o'clock till eleven, in the
same place, from the table to the stove and back again.  "I walk up and
down to please myself and no one can prevent me."  The waiter who came
into the room stopped, from time to time, to look at me.  I was
somewhat giddy from turning round so often; at moments it seemed to me
that I was in delirium.  During those three hours I was three times
soaked with sweat and dry again.  At times, with an intense, acute pang
I was stabbed to the heart by the thought that ten years, twenty years,
forty years would pass, and that even in forty years I would remember
with loathing and humiliation those filthiest, most ludicrous, and most
awful moments of my life. No one could have gone out of his way to
degrade himself more shamelessly, and I fully realised it, fully, and
yet I went on pacing up and down from the table to the stove.  "Oh, if
you only knew what thoughts and feelings I am capable of, how cultured
I am!" I thought at moments, mentally addressing the sofa on which my
enemies were sitting.  But my enemies behaved as though I were not in
the room.  Once--only once--they turned towards me, just when Zverkov
was talking about Shakespeare, and I suddenly gave a contemptuous
laugh.  I laughed in such an affected and disgusting way that they all
at once broke off their conversation, and silently and gravely for two
minutes watched me walking up and down from the table to the stove,
TAKING NO NOTICE OF THEM.  But nothing came of it: they said nothing,
and two minutes later they ceased to notice me again.  It struck eleven.

"Friends," cried Zverkov getting up from the sofa, "let us all be off
now, THERE!"

"Of course, of course," the others assented.  I turned sharply to
Zverkov.  I was so harassed, so exhausted, that I would have cut my
throat to put an end to it.  I was in a fever; my hair, soaked with
perspiration, stuck to my forehead and temples.

"Zverkov, I beg your pardon," I said abruptly and resolutely.
"Ferfitchkin, yours too, and everyone's, everyone's: I have insulted
you all!"

"Aha!  A duel is not in your line, old man," Ferfitchkin hissed
venomously.

It sent a sharp pang to my heart.

"No, it's not the duel I am afraid of, Ferfitchkin!  I am ready to
fight you tomorrow, after we are reconciled.  I insist upon it, in
fact, and you cannot refuse.  I want to show you that I am not afraid
of a duel.  You shall fire first and I shall fire into the air."

"He is comforting himself," said Simonov.

"He's simply raving," said Trudolyubov.

"But let us pass.  Why are you barring our way?  What do you want?"
Zverkov answered disdainfully.

They were all flushed, their eyes were bright: they had been drinking
heavily.

"I ask for your friendship, Zverkov; I insulted you, but ..."

"Insulted?  YOU insulted ME?  Understand, sir, that you never, under
any circumstances, could possibly insult ME."

"And that's enough for you.  Out of the way!" concluded Trudolyubov.

"Olympia is mine, friends, that's agreed!" cried Zverkov.

"We won't dispute your right, we won't dispute your right," the others
answered, laughing.

I stood as though spat upon.  The party went noisily out of the room.
Trudolyubov struck up some stupid song.  Simonov remained behind for a
moment to tip the waiters.  I suddenly went up to him.

"Simonov!  give me six roubles!" I said, with desperate resolution.

He looked at me in extreme amazement, with vacant eyes.   He, too, was
drunk.

"You don't mean you are coming with us?"

"Yes."

"I've no money," he snapped out, and with a scornful laugh he went out
of the room.

I clutched at his overcoat.  It was a nightmare.

"Simonov, I saw you had money.  Why do you refuse me?  Am I a
scoundrel?  Beware of refusing me: if you knew, if you knew why I am
asking!  My whole future, my whole plans depend upon it!"

Simonov pulled out the money and almost flung it at me.

"Take it, if you have no sense of shame!" he pronounced pitilessly, and
ran to overtake them.

I was left for a moment alone.  Disorder, the remains of dinner, a
broken wine-glass on the floor, spilt wine, cigarette ends, fumes of
drink and delirium in my brain, an agonising misery in my heart and
finally the waiter, who had seen and heard all and was looking
inquisitively into my face.

"I am going there!" I cried.  "Either they shall all go down on their
knees to beg for my friendship, or I will give Zverkov a slap in the
face!"

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When the Underground Man gets to the Hotel de Paris, he finds out from the waiter that, actually, the dinner is at six, not five. The Underground Man stands around awkwardly and hears the sound of laughter from the various other diners, which he finds to be repulsive. So repulsive, in fact, that when Simonov, Trudolyubov, and Ferfitchkin arrive with Zverkov, he's actually glad to see them, because they provide relief. Zverkov walks in at the head of the pack and kindly greets the Underground Man. Of course, this angers our narrator, who finds his demeanor to be condescending. The Underground Man also notes that Zverkov speaks with a lisp, which is new - he never spoke this way before. Turning to the other three men, the Underground Man asks why they weren't there at five, which is what they agreed to yesterday. Apparently it was Simonov who forgot to tell him of the change, but he just shrugs and doesn't apologize for his error as he heads off to order their hors d'oeuvres. Interestingly enough, Trudolyubov takes the Underground Man's side, muttering in low tones about how rude Simonov was. At last, they all sit down the dinner. Zverkov starts making friendly conversation with the Underground Man by asking him about work. Not surprisingly, the Underground Man takes offense at this. He figures that Zverkov can tell that he's embarrassed and is trying to make him feel comfortable. Oh, the nerve! And then, our narrator starts mocking Zverkov's stutter by imitating his speech. Zverkov tries to ignore it and continues asking questions, this time about the Underground Man's salary. The Underground Man flips out and asks, "Why are you cross-examining me?", but he reveals his salary nevertheless. The men collectively observe that his salary is rather small. And it's only downhill from here, folks. As the Underground Man gets more and more defensive about his financial situation, Zverkov tries to change the subject. Finally, Trudolyubov tells the Underground Man to take a chill pill already, because this is supposed to be a friendly dinner. Zverkov, still trying to change the subject, starts talking about how he almost got married a few days ago. The Underground Man sits there, fuming, because everyone is listening to Zverkov's "burlesque narrative" instead of paying any attention to him. He starts getting himself all worked up again; these men shouldn't think they're doing him a favor, he insists - it is he who is doing them an honor by gracing their dinner party with his attendance. Right... He suddenly decides that he should get up and leave at once. Of course, he doesn't move. Instead, he starts to drink. A lot. Zverkov, meanwhile, continues to tell his stories, and the men continue to ignore our narrator. When Trudolyubov makes a toast, the Underground Man refuses to drink until he makes his own speech first. Uh-oh. The Underground Man begins. First of all, he says, he hates overly stylized phrases and the people who use them. He also hates men who wear corsets. He goes on. He dislikes crude stories and the people who talk about them. He loves truth, justice, and honesty. It's right about there that he cuts himself off and just raises his glass for the toast, managing to insult Zverkov and his womanizing in the process. Zverkov keeps his cool, even though the others are ready to punch the Underground Man in the face. The Underground Man, on the other hand, does not keep his cool, and challenges Ferfitchkin to a duel the next day. Ferfitchkin immediately agrees, but all the men laugh at the proposal. So our narrator just keeps drinking. He tells the men that he knows they want him to leave, but he's going to stay anyway, just because he can. And if he wants to sing, he'll sing. He doesn't sing. We guess he doesn't want to. Then he just sits there in silence and waits for the men to talk to him. They don't. Instead, they move away from the table and to the lounge, without inviting the Underground Man to come with them. So he just sits at the table and sulks while listening in to their somewhat intellectual conversation. Then he starts pacing back and forth in the restaurant, to prove to the men that he doesn't need them. This goes on for three very painful hours, during which the Underground Man shudders to think that he will remember this terrible moment for the rest of his life. He wishes the men could realize how wonderfully cultured he is, what thoughts he is capable of having. At eleven, the men rise to leave. By this point, the Underground Man is sweaty and anxious. He runs over and begs the men for forgiveness. Ferfitchkin mocks him by suggesting he is afraid of tomorrow's duel. The Underground Man insists that this is not the case; it's just that he wants friendship. He apologizes to Zverkov for insulting him. Zverkov responds that under no circumstance could the Underground Man possibly insult him. With that, the men head out to go to a brothel. Simonov lags behind to tip the waiter, and the Underground Man takes this opportunity to corner the man. This is not fun to watch. The Underground Man now begs Simonov to lend him six more roubles so that he can go with them to "the next place," which is a brothel. Simonov is all, "Are you joking, man!?" but when the Underground Man doesn't let up he flings the six roubles at him with an angry "You have no shame!" before he leaves. Left alone, the Underground Man concludes that he will go after the men. Either he will get forgiveness from Zverkov, or he will slap him in the face. Either one will do.


prompt:
Chapter: "So this is it, this is it at last--contact with real life," I muttered
as I ran headlong downstairs.  "This is very different from the Pope's
leaving Rome and going to Brazil, very different from the ball on Lake
Como!"

"You are a scoundrel," a thought flashed through my mind, "if you laugh
at this now."

"No matter!" I cried, answering myself.  "Now everything is lost!"

There was no trace to be seen of them, but that made no difference--I
knew where they had gone.

At the steps was standing a solitary night sledge-driver in a rough
peasant coat, powdered over with the still falling, wet, and as it were
warm, snow.  It was hot and steamy.  The little shaggy piebald horse
was also covered with snow and coughing, I remember that very well.  I
made a rush for the roughly made sledge; but as soon as I raised my
foot to get into it, the recollection of how Simonov had just given me
six roubles seemed to double me up and I tumbled into the sledge like a
sack.

"No, I must do a great deal to make up for all that," I cried.  "But I
will make up for it or perish on the spot this very night.  Start!"

We set off.  There was a perfect whirl in my head.

"They won't go down on their knees to beg for my friendship.  That is a
mirage, cheap mirage, revolting, romantic and fantastical--that's
another ball on Lake Como.  And so I am bound to slap Zverkov's face!
It is my duty to.  And so it is settled; I am flying to give him a slap
in the face. Hurry up!"

The driver tugged at the reins.

"As soon as I go in I'll give it him.  Ought I before giving him the
slap to say a few words by way of preface?  No. I'll simply go in and
give it him. They will all be sitting in the drawing-room, and he with
Olympia on the sofa.  That damned Olympia!  She laughed at my looks on
one occasion and refused me.  I'll pull Olympia's hair, pull Zverkov's
ears!  No, better one ear, and pull him by it round the room.  Maybe
they will all begin beating me and will kick me out.  That's most
likely, indeed.  No matter! Anyway, I shall first slap him; the
initiative will be mine; and by the laws of honour that is everything:
he will be branded and cannot wipe off the slap by any blows, by
nothing but a duel.  He will be forced to fight.  And let them beat me
now.  Let them, the ungrateful wretches!  Trudolyubov will beat me
hardest, he is so strong; Ferfitchkin will be sure to catch hold
sideways and tug at my hair.  But no matter, no matter!  That's what I
am going for.  The blockheads will be forced at last to see the tragedy
of it all! When they drag me to the door I shall call out to them that
in reality they are not worth my little finger.  Get on, driver, get
on!" I cried to the driver. He started and flicked his whip, I shouted
so savagely.

"We shall fight at daybreak, that's a settled thing.  I've done with
the office.  Ferfitchkin made a joke about it just now.  But where can
I get pistols?  Nonsense!  I'll get my salary in advance and buy them.
And powder, and bullets?  That's the second's business.  And how can it
all be done by daybreak?  and where am I to get a second?  I have no
friends. Nonsense!" I cried, lashing myself up more and more.  "It's of
no consequence! The first person I meet in the street is bound to be my
second, just as he would be bound to pull a drowning man out of water.
The most eccentric things may happen.  Even if I were to ask the
director himself to be my second tomorrow, he would be bound to
consent, if only from a feeling of chivalry, and to keep the secret!
Anton Antonitch...."

The fact is, that at that very minute the disgusting absurdity of my
plan and the other side of the question was clearer and more vivid to
my imagination than it could be to anyone on earth.  But ....

"Get on, driver, get on, you rascal, get on!"

"Ugh, sir!" said the son of toil.

Cold shivers suddenly ran down me.  Wouldn't it be better ... to go
straight home?  My God, my God!  Why did I invite myself to this dinner
yesterday?  But no, it's impossible.  And my walking up and down for
three hours from the table to the stove?  No, they, they and no one
else must pay for my walking up and down!  They must wipe out this
dishonour! Drive on!

And what if they give me into custody?  They won't dare!  They'll be
afraid of the scandal.  And what if Zverkov is so contemptuous that he
refuses to fight a duel?  He is sure to; but in that case I'll show
them ... I will turn up at the posting station when he's setting off
tomorrow, I'll catch him by the leg, I'll pull off his coat when he
gets into the carriage. I'll get my teeth into his hand, I'll bite him.
"See what lengths you can drive a desperate man to!" He may hit me on
the head and they may belabour me from behind.  I will shout to the
assembled multitude: "Look at this young puppy who is driving off to
captivate the Circassian girls after letting me spit in his face!"

Of course, after that everything will be over!  The office will have
vanished off the face of the earth.  I shall be arrested, I shall be
tried, I shall be dismissed from the service, thrown in prison, sent to
Siberia. Never mind!  In fifteen years when they let me out of prison I
will trudge off to him, a beggar, in rags.  I shall find him in some
provincial town.  He will be married and happy.  He will have a
grown-up daughter.... I shall say to him: "Look, monster, at my hollow
cheeks and my rags!  I've lost everything--my career, my happiness,
art, science, THE WOMAN I LOVED, and all through you.  Here are
pistols.  I have come to discharge my pistol and ... and I ... forgive
you.  Then I shall fire into the air and he will hear nothing more of
me...."

I was actually on the point of tears, though I knew perfectly well at
that moment that all this was out of Pushkin's SILVIO and Lermontov's
MASQUERADE. And all at once I felt horribly ashamed, so ashamed that I
stopped the horse, got out of the sledge, and stood still in the snow
in the middle of the street.  The driver gazed at me, sighing and
astonished.

What was I to do?  I could not go on there--it was evidently stupid,
and I could not leave things as they were, because that would seem as
though ... Heavens, how could I leave things!  And after such insults!
"No!" I cried, throwing myself into the sledge again.  "It is ordained!
It is fate!  Drive on, drive on!"

And in my impatience I punched the sledge-driver on the back of the
neck.

"What are you up to?  What are you hitting me for?" the peasant
shouted, but he whipped up his nag so that it began kicking.

The wet snow was falling in big flakes; I unbuttoned myself, regardless
of it.  I forgot everything else, for I had finally decided on the
slap, and felt with horror that it was going to happen NOW, AT ONCE,
and that NO FORCE COULD STOP IT.  The deserted street lamps gleamed
sullenly in the snowy darkness like torches at a funeral.  The snow
drifted under my great-coat, under my coat, under my cravat, and melted
there.  I did not wrap myself up--all was lost, anyway.

At last we arrived.  I jumped out, almost unconscious, ran up the steps
and began knocking and kicking at the door.  I felt fearfully weak,
particularly in my legs and knees.  The door was opened quickly as
though they knew I was coming.  As a fact, Simonov had warned them that
perhaps another gentleman would arrive, and this was a place in which
one had to give notice and to observe certain precautions.  It was one
of those "millinery establishments" which were abolished by the police
a good time ago.  By day it really was a shop; but at night, if one had
an introduction, one might visit it for other purposes.

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."

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: As he leaves to pursue his frenemies, the Underground Man concludes that this is real life, and that it is indeed very different from his dreams about the "sphere of art" that we heard about before. Once outside, he gets into a horse-drawn carriage , crumpling with shame over the fact that he just borrowed six more roubles, but he concludes that he can't ask for forgiveness, so he must slap Zverkov in the face. Then he debates whether or not to say a few words before this slap. He imagines how the scenario might play out and fumes inwardly at Olympia, the woman at the brothel whom Zverkov eagerly anticipated being with that evening. The Underground Man recalls that Olympia once laughed at his looks and refused him. The Underground Man continues fantasizing; he imagines that the men, though they will scorn him and kick him out, will finally realize that they themselves are not worth his little finger. Then he decides that his duel with Zverkov should happen at daybreak. He briefly wonders where he can buy a pistol, especially since he has no money. He decides he can worry about those trivial little details later. Meanwhile, he urges the driver to make the horse go faster. He also wonders who can be his "second" , especially since he has no friends, but concludes that he could ask the first man he meets on the street to fill the post, and that man would have to agree, out of sheer chivalry. And then, suddenly, the Underground Man gets shivers down his spine and wonders if, maybe, he should just go home. He curses himself for having coming to this dinner at all. But then he resolves himself and again urges the driver to go faster. He continues to run through in his mind every possible scenario. What if they have him arrested? What if Zverkov won't fight? Etc...etc. He decides that if he is thrown in jail, he'll serve out fifteen years or so, get released, and THEN go find Zverkov in order to magnanimously and publicly forgive him. At this point, he is basically on the verge of tears, although he knows full well that he had stolen all these scenarios from literature. He feels so ashamed that he makes the driver stop and gets out of the carriage to stand in the snow and ponder. This lasts, oh, a few seconds before he hurls himself back into the sled and commands the driver onward. He's so eager, in fact, that he punches the driver in the back of the neck. Now that he has resolved himself to slap Zverkov, nothing can stop him. The Underground Man arrives at the brothel, leaps out of the sled, bangs on the door and is greeted by the madam. He immediately demands to know where the other men are. They're not there. The Underground Man is unspeakably relieved; he feels as though he has been "saved from death." Then he looks around and focuses on a girl that has just come into the room. She is young and "grave," and he finds her eyes attractive, though admits she's no beauty. He adds that he would have hated her if she had been smiling. He looks into the mirror to find that he looks rather atrocious himself; but he's glad of that. He's glad that this girl will find him utterly repulsive.


prompt:
Chapter: ...  Somewhere behind a screen a clock began wheezing, as though
oppressed by something, as though someone were strangling it.  After an
unnaturally prolonged wheezing there followed a shrill, nasty, and as
it were unexpectedly rapid, chime--as though someone were suddenly
jumping forward.  It struck two.  I woke up, though I had indeed not
been asleep but lying half-conscious.

It was almost completely dark in the narrow, cramped, low-pitched room,
cumbered up with an enormous wardrobe and piles of cardboard boxes and
all sorts of frippery and litter.  The candle end that had been burning
on the table was going out and gave a faint flicker from time to time.
In a few minutes there would be complete darkness.

I was not long in coming to myself; everything came back to my mind at
once, without an effort, as though it had been in ambush to pounce upon
me again.  And, indeed, even while I was unconscious a point seemed
continually to remain in my memory unforgotten, and round it my dreams
moved drearily.  But strange to say, everything that had happened to me
in that day seemed to me now, on waking, to be in the far, far away
past, as though I had long, long ago lived all that down.

My head was full of fumes.  Something seemed to be hovering over me,
rousing me, exciting me, and making me restless.  Misery and spite
seemed surging up in me again and seeking an outlet.  Suddenly I saw
beside me two wide open eyes scrutinising me curiously and
persistently. The look in those eyes was coldly detached, sullen, as it
were utterly remote; it weighed upon me.

A grim idea came into my brain and passed all over my body, as a
horrible sensation, such as one feels when one goes into a damp and
mouldy cellar.  There was something unnatural in those two eyes,
beginning to look at me only now.  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.
For a long time we gazed at each other like that, but she did not drop
her eyes before mine and her expression did not change, so that at last
I felt uncomfortable.

"What is your name?" I asked abruptly, to put an end to it.

"Liza," she answered almost in a whisper, but somehow far from
graciously, and she turned her eyes away.

I was silent.

"What weather!  The snow ... it's disgusting!" I said, almost to
myself, putting my arm under my head despondently, and gazing at the
ceiling.

She made no answer.  This was horrible.

"Have you always lived in Petersburg?" I asked a minute later, almost
angrily, turning my head slightly towards her.

"No."

"Where do you come from?"

"From Riga," she answered reluctantly.

"Are you a German?"

"No, Russian."

"Have you been here long?"

"Where?"

"In this house?"

"A fortnight."

She spoke more and more jerkily.  The candle went out; I could no
longer distinguish her face.

"Have you a father and mother?"

"Yes ... no ... I have."

"Where are they?"

"There ... in Riga."

"What are they?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Nothing?  Why, what class are they?"

"Tradespeople."

"Have you always lived with them?"

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty."

"Why did you leave them?"

"Oh, for no reason."

That answer meant "Let me alone; I feel sick, sad."

We were silent.

God knows why I did not go away.  I felt myself more and more sick and
dreary.  The images of the previous day began of themselves, apart from
my will, flitting through my memory in confusion.  I suddenly recalled
something I had seen that morning when, full of anxious thoughts, I was
hurrying to the office.

"I saw them carrying a coffin out yesterday and they nearly dropped
it," I suddenly said aloud, not that I desired to open the
conversation, but as it were by accident.

"A coffin?"

"Yes, in the Haymarket; they were bringing it up out of a cellar."

"From a cellar?"

"Not from a cellar, but a basement.  Oh, you know ... down below ...
from a house of ill-fame.  It was filthy all round ...  Egg-shells,
litter ... a stench.  It was loathsome."

Silence.

"A nasty day to be buried," I began, simply to avoid being silent.

"Nasty, in what way?"

"The snow, the wet."  (I yawned.)

"It makes no difference," she said suddenly, after a brief silence.

"No, it's horrid."  (I yawned again).  "The gravediggers must have
sworn at getting drenched by the snow.  And there must have been water
in the grave."

"Why water in the grave?" she asked, with a sort of curiosity, but
speaking even more harshly and abruptly than before.

I suddenly began to feel provoked.

"Why, there must have been water at the bottom a foot deep.  You can't
dig a dry grave in Volkovo Cemetery."

"Why?"

"Why?  Why, the place is waterlogged.  It's a regular marsh.  So they
bury them in water.  I've seen it myself ... many times."

(I had never seen it once, indeed I had never been in Volkovo, and had
only heard stories of it.)

"Do you mean to say, you don't mind how you die?"

"But why should I die?" she answered, as though defending herself.

"Why, some day you will die, and you will die just the same as that
dead woman.  She was ... a girl like you.  She died of consumption."

"A wench would have died in hospital ..."  (She knows all about it
already: she said "wench," not "girl.")

"She was in debt to her madam," I retorted, more and more provoked by
the discussion; "and went on earning money for her up to the end,
though she was in consumption.  Some sledge-drivers standing by were
talking about her to some soldiers and telling them so.  No doubt they
knew her.  They were laughing.  They were going to meet in a pot-house
to drink to her memory."

A great deal of this was my invention.  Silence followed, profound
silence.  She did not stir.

"And is it better to die in a hospital?"

"Isn't it just the same?  Besides, why should I die?" she added
irritably.

"If not now, a little later."

"Why a little later?"

"Why, indeed?  Now you are young, pretty, fresh, you fetch a high
price.  But after another year of this life you will be very
different--you will go off."

"In a year?"

"Anyway, in a year you will be worth less," I continued malignantly.
"You will go from here to something lower, another house; a year
later--to a third, lower and lower, and in seven years you will come to
a basement in the Haymarket.  That will be if you were lucky.  But it
would be much worse if you got some disease, consumption, say ... and
caught a chill, or something or other.  It's not easy to get over an
illness in your way of life.  If you catch anything you may not get rid
of it.  And so you would die."

"Oh, well, then I shall die," she answered, quite vindictively, and she
made a quick movement.

"But one is sorry."

"Sorry for whom?"

"Sorry for life." Silence.

"Have you been engaged to be married?  Eh?"

"What's that to you?"

"Oh, I am not cross-examining you.  It's nothing to me.  Why are you so
cross?  Of course you may have had your own troubles.  What is it to
me?  It's simply that I felt sorry."

"Sorry for whom?"

"Sorry for you."

"No need," she whispered hardly audibly, and again made a faint
movement.

That incensed me at once.  What!  I was so gentle with her, and she....

"Why, do you think that you are on the right path?"

"I don't think anything."

"That's what's wrong, that you don't think.  Realise it while there is
still time.  There still is time.  You are still young, good-looking;
you might love, be married, be happy...."

"Not all married women are happy," she snapped out in the rude abrupt
tone she had used at first.

"Not all, of course, but anyway it is much better than the life here.
Infinitely better.  Besides, with love one can live even without
happiness. Even in sorrow life is sweet; life is sweet, however one
lives.  But here what is there but ... foulness?  Phew!"

I turned away with disgust; I was no longer reasoning coldly.  I began
to feel myself what I was saying and warmed to the subject.  I was
already longing to expound the cherished ideas I had brooded over in my
corner. Something suddenly flared up in me.  An object had appeared
before me.

"Never mind my being here, I am not an example for you.  I am, perhaps,
worse than you are.  I was drunk when I came here, though," I hastened,
however, to say in self-defence.  "Besides, a man is no example for a
woman.  It's a different thing.  I may degrade and defile myself, but I
am not anyone's slave.  I come and go, and that's an end of it.  I
shake it off, and I am a different man.  But you are a slave from the
start.  Yes, a slave! You give up everything, your whole freedom.  If
you want to break your chains afterwards, you won't be able to; you
will be more and more fast in the snares.  It is an accursed bondage.
I know it.  I won't speak of anything else, maybe you won't understand,
but tell me: no doubt you are in debt to your madam?  There, you see,"
I added, though she made no answer, but only listened in silence,
entirely absorbed, "that's a bondage for you! You will never buy your
freedom.  They will see to that.  It's like selling your soul to the
devil....  And besides ... perhaps, I too, am just as unlucky--how do
you know--and wallow in the mud on purpose, out of misery?  You know,
men take to drink from grief; well, maybe I am here from grief.  Come,
tell me, what is there good here?  Here you and I ... came together ...
just now and did not say one word to one another all the time, and it
was only afterwards you began staring at me like a wild creature, and I
at you.  Is that loving?  Is that how one human being should meet
another?  It's hideous, that's what it is!"

"Yes!" she assented sharply and hurriedly.

I was positively astounded by the promptitude of this "Yes."  So the
same thought may have been straying through her mind when she was
staring at me just before.  So she, too, was capable of certain
thoughts? "Damn it all, this was interesting, this was a point of
likeness!" I thought, almost rubbing my hands.  And indeed it's easy to
turn a young soul like that!

It was the exercise of my power that attracted me most.

She turned her head nearer to me, and it seemed to me in the darkness
that she propped herself on her arm.  Perhaps she was scrutinising me.
How I regretted that I could not see her eyes.  I heard her deep
breathing.

"Why have you come here?" I asked her, with a note of authority already
in my voice.

"Oh, I don't know."

"But how nice it would be to be living in your father's house!  It's
warm and free; you have a home of your own."

"But what if it's worse than this?"

"I must take the right tone," flashed through my mind.  "I may not get
far with sentimentality."  But it was only a momentary thought.  I
swear she really did interest me.  Besides, I was exhausted and moody.
And cunning so easily goes hand-in-hand with feeling.

"Who denies it!" I hastened to answer.  "Anything may happen.  I am
convinced that someone has wronged you, and that you are more sinned
against than sinning.  Of course, I know nothing of your story, but
it's not likely a girl like you has come here of her own inclination...."

"A girl like me?" she whispered, hardly audibly; but I heard it.

Damn it all, I was flattering her.  That was horrid.  But perhaps it
was a good thing....  She was silent.

"See, Liza, I will tell you about myself.  If I had had a home from
childhood, I shouldn't be what I am now.  I often think that.  However
bad it may be at home, anyway they are your father and mother, and not
enemies, strangers.  Once a year at least, they'll show their love of
you. Anyway, you know you are at home.  I grew up without a home; and
perhaps that's why I've turned so ... unfeeling."

I waited again.  "Perhaps she doesn't understand," I thought, "and,
indeed, it is absurd--it's moralising."

"If I were a father and had a daughter, I believe I should love my
daughter more than my sons, really," I began indirectly, as though
talking of something else, to distract her attention.  I must confess I
blushed.

"Why so?" she asked.

Ah! so she was listening!

"I don't know, Liza.  I knew a father who was a stern, austere man, but
used to go down on his knees to his daughter, used to kiss her hands,
her feet, he couldn't make enough of her, really.  When she danced at
parties he used to stand for five hours at a stretch, gazing at her.
He was mad over her: I understand that!  She would fall asleep tired at
night, and he would wake to kiss her in her sleep and make the sign of
the cross over her.  He would go about in a dirty old coat, he was
stingy to everyone else, but would spend his last penny for her, giving
her expensive presents, and it was his greatest delight when she was
pleased with what he gave her. Fathers always love their daughters more
than the mothers do.  Some girls live happily at home!  And I believe I
should never let my daughters marry."

"What next?" she said, with a faint smile.

"I should be jealous, I really should.  To think that she should kiss
anyone else!  That she should love a stranger more than her father!
It's painful to imagine it.  Of course, that's all nonsense, of course
every father would be reasonable at last.  But I believe before I
should let her marry, I should worry myself to death; I should find
fault with all her suitors.  But I should end by letting her marry whom
she herself loved. The one whom the daughter loves always seems the
worst to the father, you know.  That is always so.  So many family
troubles come from that."

"Some are glad to sell their daughters, rather than marrying them
honourably."

Ah, so that was it!

"Such a thing, Liza, happens in those accursed families in which there
is neither love nor God," I retorted warmly, "and where there is no
love, there is no sense either.  There are such families, it's true,
but I am not speaking of them.  You must have seen wickedness in your
own family, if you talk like that.  Truly, you must have been unlucky.
H'm! ... that sort of thing mostly comes about through poverty."

"And is it any better with the gentry?  Even among the poor, honest
people who live happily?"

"H'm ... yes.  Perhaps.  Another thing, Liza, man is fond of reckoning
up his troubles, but does not count his joys.  If he counted them up as
he ought, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for
it. And what if all goes well with the family, if the blessing of God
is upon it, if the husband is a good one, loves you, cherishes you,
never leaves you! There is happiness in such a family!  Even sometimes
there is happiness in the midst of sorrow; and indeed sorrow is
everywhere.  If you marry YOU WILL FIND OUT FOR YOURSELF.  But think of
the first years of married life with one you love: what happiness, what
happiness there sometimes is in it! And indeed it's the ordinary thing.
In those early days even quarrels with one's husband end happily.  Some
women get up quarrels with their husbands just because they love them.
Indeed, I knew a woman like that: she seemed to say that because she
loved him, she would torment him and make him feel it.  You know that
you may torment a man on purpose through love.  Women are particularly
given to that, thinking to themselves 'I will love him so, I will make
so much of him afterwards, that it's no sin to torment him a little
now.' And all in the  house rejoice in the sight of you, and you are
happy and gay and peaceful and honourable.... Then there are some
women who are jealous.  If he went off anywhere--I knew one such woman,
she couldn't restrain herself, but would jump up at night and run off
on the sly to find out where he was, whether he was with some other
woman.  That's a pity.  And the woman knows herself it's wrong, and her
heart fails her and she suffers, but she loves--it's all through love.
And how sweet it is to make up after quarrels, to own herself in the
wrong or to forgive him!  And they both are so happy all at once--as
though they had met anew, been married over again; as though their love
had begun afresh.  And no one, no one should know what passes between
husband and wife if they love one another.  And whatever quarrels there
may be between them they ought not to call in their own mother to judge
between them and tell tales of one another. They are their own judges.
Love is a holy mystery and ought to be hidden from all other eyes,
whatever happens.  That makes it holier and better. They respect one
another more, and much is built on respect.  And if once there has been
love, if they have been married for love, why should love pass away?
Surely one can keep it!  It is rare that one cannot keep it. And if the
husband is kind and straightforward, why should not love last? The
first phase of married love will pass, it is true, but then there will
come a love that is better still.  Then there will be the union of
souls, they will have everything in common, there will be no secrets
between them. And once they have children, the most difficult times
will seem to them happy, so long as there is love and courage.  Even
toil will be a joy, you may deny yourself bread for your children and
even that will be a joy, They will love you for it afterwards; so you
are laying by for your future. As the children grow up you feel that
you are an example, a support for them; that even after you die your
children will always keep your thoughts and feelings, because they have
received them from you, they will take on your semblance and likeness.
So you see this is a great duty. How can it fail to draw the father and
mother nearer?  People say it's a trial to have children.  Who says
that?  It is heavenly happiness!  Are you fond of little children,
Liza?  I am awfully fond of them.  You know--a little rosy baby boy at
your bosom, and what husband's heart is not touched, seeing his wife
nursing his child!  A plump little rosy baby, sprawling and snuggling,
chubby little hands and feet, clean tiny little nails, so tiny that it
makes one laugh to look at them; eyes that look as if they understand
everything.  And while it sucks it clutches at your bosom with its
little hand, plays.  When its father comes up, the child tears itself
away from the bosom, flings itself back, looks at its father, laughs,
as though it were fearfully funny, and falls to sucking again.  Or it
will bite its mother's breast when its little teeth are coming, while
it looks sideways at her with its little eyes as though to say, 'Look,
I am biting!' Is not all that happiness when they are the three
together, husband, wife and child?  One can forgive a great deal for
the sake of such moments.  Yes, Liza, one must first learn to live
oneself before one blames others!"

"It's by pictures, pictures like that one must get at you," I thought
to myself, though I did speak with real feeling, and all at once I
flushed crimson.  "What if she were suddenly to burst out laughing,
what should I do then?" That idea drove me to fury.  Towards the end of
my speech I really was excited, and now my vanity was somehow wounded.
The silence continued.  I almost nudged her.

"Why are you--" she began and stopped.  But I understood: there was a
quiver of something different in her voice, not abrupt, harsh and
unyielding as before, but something soft and shamefaced, so shamefaced
that I suddenly felt ashamed and guilty.

"What?" I asked, with tender curiosity.

"Why, you..."

"What?"

"Why, you ... speak somehow like a book," she said, and again there was
a note of irony in her voice.

That remark sent a pang to my heart.  It was not what I was expecting.

I did not understand that she was hiding her feelings under irony, that
this is usually the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when
the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded, and that
their pride makes them refuse to surrender till the last moment and
shrink from giving expression to their feelings before you.  I ought to
have guessed the truth from the timidity with which she had repeatedly
approached her sarcasm, only bringing herself to utter it at last with
an effort.  But I did not guess, and an evil feeling took possession of
me.

"Wait a bit!" I thought.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: At around 2am the Underground Man wakes up next to the girl. The events of the preceding day slowly come back to him, and he mulls them over until he sees that the prostitute is awake and looking at him intently. This awkward staring goes on for a while until he asks her name. She answers "Liza" and finally turns her eyes away. Unsure of what to talk about, the Underground Man brings up...the weather. She doesn't respond, so the Underground Man just keeps asking her questions to keep up conversation and avoid uncomfortable silence. Through this stilted conversation, we find out that Liza is twenty, that her parents are "tradespeople" , and that she doesn't really want to talk about why she left her home and now works in a brothel. Then, the Underground Man suddenly remembers something he saw earlier that day and decides that now would be the perfect time to talk about it. Unfortunately, that something is the coffin of a dead prostitute. The Underground Man finds this horrible, especially since it was such a dirty, dismal day to be buried and there was water in the grave. Liza, on the other hand, doesn't think it matters - who cares once you're dead? The Underground Man explains that the dead prostitute died of consumption and that she probably went on "earning for her madame" right up to the end. She didn't even get to go to the hospital. And everyone was laughing at her funeral. Liza still doesn't see what this has to do with her. The Underground Man embarks on an inspiring motivational speech. He kindly explains that Liza may be young, fresh, and pretty now, but pretty soon she'll be old, ugly, and diseased. As she deteriorates, she'll have to move to dirtier and less reputable brothels, until she finally ends up at the lowest of the low, like the girl whose coffin he saw today. And then she'll die. This has to be the worst morning-after conversation ever. Liza still doesn't care. The Underground Man hints at his being sorry for her, and she's all, "I don't need pity." This really pisses him off; he feels like he's been gentle and kind with her and now she's treating him badly by writing him off. He tries to tell her what she could do if she weren't a prostitute. For example, she could get married. When Liza responds that not all married women are happy, the Underground Man retorts that love is more important than happiness. With love, you don't need to be happy. Then he gets pretty fired up. He tells Liza not to think of him as an example for her, since men are completely different from women to begin with. Men might fall into slavery now and again, but they can stand up and shake it off. Liza has made herself a slave with no chance of escape by going into prostitution. He tells her that the way they just met and had sex is "hideous"; she agrees with a sharp "Yes!" This very much surprises the Underground Man, since it means she is capable of such thoughts. This is fascinating for him because it means that he and Liza share something in common. But mostly, the thing that excites him the most is that now he has an opportunity to exercise his power. So the Underground Man gets on his high preachy horse. He asks her why she came to the brothel, admitting that he himself had no good home life and perhaps that is why he's become so unfeeling. When Liza doesn't answer him in any clear way, he starts talking about fathers and children. If he were a father, he says, he would love his daughter more than his sons. He would dote over them, would be jealous of any man they wanted to marry. Liza comments that some fathers aren't so great. Some fathers sell their daughters to brothels. The Underground Man is all, "A-ha!", thinking he's figured out her back-story. He tells Liza that she was unfortunate, and that that has a lot to do with her family being somewhat poor. Together they conclude that unhappiness is everywhere, not just among the poor classes. But the Underground Man offers that one can be happy in the midst of suffering. As an example, he offers women who argue with their husbands. They nag and pick fights because they love their spouses. They argue in part, he says, because it's so sweet to make up afterwards - as though they've just been married again. He talks about the way a marriage between two people changes over time. Their love may shape-shift a bit, but it will never go away. At first there is excitement and newness, which passes, but it is replaced by a deeper love, the true union of two souls. This is the good stuff, he argues, when even toil is enjoyable because you're toiling alongside someone else. And having children - that's even better! he says. He is awfully fond of children himself. The idea seems so appealing, he says, that a person could forgive a lot for the sake of having a family. He adds that a person needs to learn first how to live before he can ever blame others. The Underground Man realizes that he is speaking with genuine sentiment, and he suddenly fears horribly that Liza will laugh at him. When she finally does respond, she tells the Underground Man that he speaks "like a book," meaning his language and thoughts are very intellectually advanced. Now this is interesting. Don't forget that the Underground Man is evaluating the whole situation in retrospect - he's forty and telling us the story of when he was younger. What he says is that he realizes now that he's older that she was using irony to hide her true feelings, that irony is the last refuge of modest and chaste people. He had just invaded her soul, he explains, so she took refuge in irony. But, at the time, while lying in bed with her, he didn't realize this. Instead, he felt angry at her for being sarcastic with him.


prompt:
Chapter: "Oh, hush, Liza!  How can you talk about being like a book, when it
makes even me, an outsider, feel sick?  Though I don't look at it as an
outsider, for, indeed, it touches me to the heart....  Is it possible,
is it possible that you do not feel sick at being here yourself?
Evidently habit does wonders!  God knows what habit can do with anyone.
Can you seriously think that you will never grow old, that you will
always be good-looking, and that they will keep you here for ever and
ever?  I say nothing of the loathsomeness of the life here.... Though
let me tell you this about it--about your present life, I mean; here
though you are young now, attractive, nice, with soul and feeling, yet
you know as soon as I came to myself just now I felt at once sick at
being here with you!  One can only come here when one is drunk.  But if
you were anywhere else, living as good people live, I should perhaps be
more than attracted by you, should fall in love with you, should be
glad of a look from you, let alone a word; I should hang about your
door, should go down on my knees to you, should look upon you as my
betrothed and think it an honour to be allowed to.  I should not dare
to have an impure thought about you.  But here, you see, I know that I
have only to whistle and you have to come with me whether you like it
or not.  I don't consult your wishes, but you mine.  The lowest
labourer hires himself as a workman, but he doesn't make a slave of
himself altogether; besides, he knows that he will be free again
presently.  But when are you free?  Only think what you are giving up
here?  What is it you are making a slave of?  It is your soul, together
with your body; you are selling your soul which you have no right to
dispose of!  You give your love to be outraged by every drunkard!
Love!  But that's everything, you know, it's a priceless diamond, it's
a maiden's treasure, love--why, a man would be ready to give his soul,
to face death to gain that love.  But how much is your love worth now?
You are sold, all of you, body and soul, and there is no need to strive
for love when you can have everything without love.  And you know there
is no greater insult to a girl than that, do you understand?  To be
sure, I have heard that they comfort you, poor fools, they let you have
lovers of your own here.  But you know that's simply a farce, that's
simply a sham, it's just laughing at you, and you are taken in by it!
Why, do you suppose he really loves you, that lover of yours?  I don't
believe it.  How can he love you when he knows you may be called away
from him any minute? He would be a low fellow if he did!  Will he have
a grain of respect for you?  What have you in common with him?  He
laughs at you and robs you--that is all his love amounts to!  You are
lucky if he does not beat you.  Very likely he does beat you, too.  Ask
him, if you have got one, whether he will marry you.  He will laugh in
your face, if he doesn't spit in it or give you a blow--though maybe he
is not worth a bad halfpenny himself.  And for what have you ruined
your life, if you come to think of it?  For the coffee they give you to
drink and the plentiful meals?  But with what object are they feeding
you up?  An honest girl couldn't swallow the food, for she would know
what she was being fed for.  You are in debt here, and, of course, you
will always be in debt, and you will go on in debt to the end, till the
visitors here begin to scorn you.  And that will soon happen, don't
rely upon your youth--all that flies by express train here, you know.
You will be kicked out.  And not simply kicked out; long before that
she'll begin nagging at you, scolding you, abusing you, as though you
had not sacrificed your health for her, had not thrown away your youth
and your soul for her benefit, but as though you had ruined her,
beggared her, robbed her.  And don't expect anyone to take your part:
the others, your companions, will attack you, too, win her favour, for
all are in slavery here, and have lost all conscience and pity here
long ago.  They have become utterly vile, and nothing on earth is
viler, more loathsome, and more insulting than their abuse.  And you
are laying down everything here, unconditionally, youth and health and
beauty and hope, and at twenty-two you will look like a woman of
five-and-thirty, and you will be lucky if you are not diseased, pray to
God for that!  No doubt you are thinking now that you have a gay time
and no work to do!  Yet there is no work harder or more dreadful in the
world or ever has been.  One would think that the heart alone would be
worn out with tears.  And you won't dare to say a word, not half a word
when they drive you away from here; you will go away as though you were
to blame.  You will change to another house, then to a third, then
somewhere else, till you come down at last to the Haymarket.  There you
will be beaten at every turn; that is good manners there, the visitors
don't know how to be friendly without beating you.  You don't believe
that it is so hateful there?  Go and look for yourself some time, you
can see with your own eyes.  Once, one New Year's Day, I saw a woman at
a door.  They had turned her out as a joke, to give her a taste of the
frost because she had been crying so much, and they shut the door
behind her.  At nine o'clock in the morning she was already quite
drunk, dishevelled, half-naked, covered with bruises, her face was
powdered, but she had a black-eye, blood was trickling from her nose
and her teeth; some cabman had just given her a drubbing.  She was
sitting on the stone steps, a salt fish of some sort was in her hand;
she was crying, wailing something about her luck and beating with the
fish on the steps, and cabmen and drunken soldiers were crowding in the
doorway taunting her.  You don't believe that you will ever be like
that?  I should be sorry to believe it, too, but how do you know; maybe
ten years, eight years ago that very woman with the salt fish came here
fresh as a cherub, innocent, pure, knowing no evil, blushing at every
word.  Perhaps she was like you, proud, ready to take offence, not like
the others; perhaps she looked like a queen, and knew what happiness
was in store for the man who should love her and whom she should love.
Do you see how it ended?  And what if at that very minute when she was
beating on the filthy steps with that fish, drunken and
dishevelled--what if at that very minute she recalled the pure early
days in her father's house, when she used to go to school and the
neighbour's son watched for her on the way, declaring that he would
love her as long as he lived, that he would devote his life to her, and
when they vowed to love one another for ever and be married as soon as
they were grown up!  No, Liza, it would be happy for you if you were to
die soon of consumption in some corner, in some cellar like that woman
just now.  In the hospital, do you say?  You will be lucky if they take
you, but what if you are still of use to the madam here? Consumption is
a queer disease, it is not like fever.  The patient goes on hoping till
the last minute and says he is all right.  He deludes himself And that
just suits your madam.  Don't doubt it, that's how it is; you have sold
your soul, and what is more you owe money, so you daren't say a word.
But when you are dying, all will abandon you, all will turn away from
you, for then there will be nothing to get from you.  What's more, they
will reproach you for cumbering the place, for being so long over
dying.  However you beg you won't get a drink of water without abuse:
'Whenever are you going off, you nasty hussy, you won't let us sleep
with your moaning, you make the gentlemen sick.'  That's true, I have
heard such things said myself.  They will thrust you dying into the
filthiest corner in the cellar--in the damp and darkness; what will
your thoughts be, lying there alone?  When you die, strange hands will
lay you out, with grumbling and impatience; no one will bless you, no
one will sigh for you, they only want to get rid of you as soon as may
be; they will buy a coffin, take you to the grave as they did that poor
woman today, and celebrate your memory at the tavern.  In the grave,
sleet, filth, wet snow--no need to put themselves out for you--'Let her
down, Vanuha; it's just like her luck--even here, she is head-foremost,
the hussy.  Shorten the cord, you rascal.'  'It's all right as it is.'
'All right, is it?  Why, she's on her side!  She was a fellow-creature,
after all!  But, never mind, throw the earth on her.'  And they won't
care to waste much time quarrelling over you.  They will scatter the
wet blue clay as quick as they can and go off to the tavern ... and
there your memory on earth will end; other women have children to go to
their graves, fathers, husbands.  While for you neither tear, nor sigh,
nor remembrance; no one in the whole world will ever come to you, your
name will vanish from the face of the earth--as though you had never
existed, never been born at all!  Nothing but filth and mud, however
you knock at your coffin lid at night, when the dead arise, however you
cry: 'Let me out, kind people, to live in the light of day!  My life
was no life at all; my life has been thrown away like a dish-clout; it
was drunk away in the tavern at the Haymarket; let me out, kind people,
to live in the world again.'"

And I worked myself up to such a pitch that I began to have a lump in
my throat myself, and ... and all at once I stopped, sat up in dismay
and, bending over apprehensively, began to listen with a beating heart.
I had reason to be troubled.

I had felt for some time that I was turning her soul upside down and
rending her heart, and--and the more I was convinced of it, the more
eagerly I desired to gain my object as quickly and as effectually as
possible.  It was the exercise of my skill that carried me away; yet it
was not merely sport....

I knew I was speaking stiffly, artificially, even bookishly, in fact, I
could not speak except "like a book."  But that did not trouble me: I
knew, I felt that I should be understood and that this very bookishness
might be an assistance.  But now, having attained my effect, I was
suddenly panic-stricken.  Never before had I witnessed such despair!
She was lying on her face, thrusting her face into the pillow and
clutching it in both hands.  Her heart was being torn.  Her youthful
body was shuddering all over as though in convulsions.  Suppressed sobs
rent her bosom and suddenly burst out in weeping and wailing, then she
pressed closer into the pillow: she did not want anyone here, not a
living soul, to know of her anguish and her tears.  She bit the pillow,
bit her hand till it bled (I saw that afterwards), or, thrusting her
fingers into her dishevelled hair, seemed rigid with the effort of
restraint, holding her breath and clenching her teeth.  I began saying
something, begging her to calm herself, but felt that I did not dare;
and all at once, in a sort of cold shiver, almost in terror, began
fumbling in the dark, trying hurriedly to get dressed to go.  It was
dark; though I tried my best I could not finish dressing quickly.
Suddenly I felt a box of matches and a candlestick with a whole candle
in it.  As soon as the room was lighted up, Liza sprang up, sat up in
bed, and with a contorted face, with a half insane smile, looked at me
almost senselessly.  I sat down beside her and took her hands; she came
to herself, made an impulsive movement towards me, would have caught
hold of me, but did not dare, and slowly bowed her head before me.

"Liza, my dear, I was wrong ... forgive me, my dear," I began, but she
squeezed my hand in her fingers so tightly that I felt I was saying the
wrong thing and stopped.

"This is my address, Liza, come to me."

"I will come," she answered resolutely, her head still bowed.

"But now I am going, good-bye ... till we meet again."

I got up; she, too, stood up and suddenly flushed all over, gave a
shudder, snatched up a shawl that was lying on a chair and muffled
herself in it to her chin.  As she did this she gave another sickly
smile, blushed and looked at me strangely.  I felt wretched; I was in
haste to get away--to disappear.

"Wait a minute," she said suddenly, in the passage just at the doorway,
stopping me with her hand on my overcoat.  She put down the candle in
hot haste and ran off; evidently she had thought of something or wanted
to show me something.  As she ran away she flushed, her eyes shone, and
there was a smile on her lips--what was the meaning of it?  Against my
will I waited: she came back a minute later with an expression that
seemed to ask forgiveness for something.  In fact, it was not the same
face, not the same look as the evening before: sullen, mistrustful and
obstinate. Her eyes now were imploring, soft, and at the same time
trustful, caressing, timid.  The expression with which children look at
people they are very fond of, of whom they are asking a favour.  Her
eyes were a light hazel, they were lovely eyes, full of life, and
capable of expressing love as well as sullen hatred.

Making no explanation, as though I, as a sort of higher being, must
understand everything without explanations, she held out a piece of
paper to me.  Her whole face was positively beaming at that instant
with naive, almost childish, triumph.  I unfolded it.  It was a letter
to her from a medical student or someone of that sort--a very
high-flown and flowery, but extremely respectful, love-letter.  I don't
recall the words now, but I remember well that through the high-flown
phrases there was apparent a genuine feeling, which cannot be feigned.
When I had finished reading it I met her glowing, questioning, and
childishly impatient eyes fixed upon me.  She fastened her eyes upon my
face and waited impatiently for what I should say.  In a few words,
hurriedly, but with a sort of joy and pride, she explained to me that
she had been to a dance somewhere in a private house, a family of "very
nice people, WHO KNEW NOTHING, absolutely nothing, for she had only
come here so lately and it had all happened ... and she hadn't made up
her mind to stay and was certainly going away as soon as she had paid
her debt..." and at that party there had been the student who had
danced with her all the evening.  He had talked to her, and it turned
out that he had known her in old days at Riga when he was a child, they
had played together, but a very long time ago--and he knew her parents,
but ABOUT THIS he knew nothing, nothing whatever, and had no suspicion!
And the day after the dance (three days ago) he had sent her that
letter through the friend with whom she had gone to the party ... and
... well, that was all.

She dropped her shining eyes with a sort of bashfulness as she finished.

The poor girl was keeping that student's letter as a precious treasure,
and had run to fetch it, her only treasure, because she did not want me
to go away without knowing that she, too, was honestly and genuinely
loved; that she, too, was addressed respectfully.  No doubt that letter
was destined to lie in her box and lead to nothing.  But none the less,
I am certain that she would keep it all her life as a precious
treasure, as her pride and justification, and now at such a minute she
had thought of that letter and brought it with naive pride to raise
herself in my eyes that I might see, that I, too, might think well of
her.  I said nothing, pressed her hand and went out.  I so longed to
get away ... I walked all the way home, in spite of the fact that the
melting snow was still falling in heavy flakes.  I was exhausted,
shattered, in bewilderment.  But behind the bewilderment the truth was
already gleaming.  The loathsome truth.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The Underground Man launches right back into his "life's a b---h and then you die" speech. He says he's essentially disgusted with Liza's occupation, but if she were something else, he might very well fall in love with her. As such, though, he could never love her, because she's just a slave who has to come when he calls. Even the lowest of workmen, he says, isn't a slave. He adds that Liza isn't selling just her body, she's in fact selling her soul, which she has no right to do. A maiden's treasure, he says, is her love. It's as valuable as a diamond, and a man will do anything to get it. But if she gives away sex without love, why would man strive for her love? In fact, he tells her, not only do men not love her, but they don't respect her, and they laugh at her. If she doesn't believe him, all she has to do is ask one of her clients if he will marry her. When he laughs in her face, it should be proof enough. The Underground Man adds that she can't rely on her youth and good looks, since those will fade fast. He tells her of yet another woman he's seen recently, probably a former prostitute, who was drunk and homeless and kept getting beat up. No, he's not done yet. The Underground Man, after detailing the horrible disease which Liza will probably contract, adds that everyone will yell at her for taking too long to die and for being a burden while she's sick. And after that, when she finally does die, no one will care and no one will come to her funeral, and no one will ever miss her or even remember her name. And then...he stops talking. He's nervous; he knows he is talking "like a book," as she said, but he also realizes that he's had a huge effect on Liza. She's thrust her face into her pillow and is grasping at it with both hands. He feels bad, so he takes her hands and tells her that he's sorry and he didn't mean it. He also gives her his address and tells her to come and see him. She agrees. Then the Underground Man feels awkward and decides he needs to get away. Before he can escape, however, Liza tells him to "wait a minute" while she rushes to another room. She returns with a letter in her hand and shows it to him. It is a love letter, and a very chaste, respectful one at that. Liza explains quickly that she was at a party and met a boy who didn't know she was a prostitute. He fell in love with her there - hence the letter. The Underground Man realizes what's up: she wants him to know that there is a man somewhere who loves her. And even though Liza knows this love will never come to fruition, she can at least keep the letter as "a precious treasure." The Underground Man knows he has to get away immediately, since he has just become aware of a "loathsome truth."