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.

 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."

