Chapter: "Into my house come bold and free,
     Its rightful mistress there to be."

I stood before her crushed, crestfallen, revoltingly confused, and I
believe I smiled as I did my utmost to wrap myself in the skirts of my
ragged wadded dressing-gown--exactly as I had imagined the scene not
long before in a fit of depression.  After standing over us for a
couple of minutes Apollon went away, but that did not make me more at
ease.  What made it worse was that she, too, was overwhelmed with
confusion, more so, in fact, than I should have expected.  At the sight
of me, of course.

"Sit down," I said mechanically, moving a chair up to the table, and I
sat down on the sofa.  She obediently sat down at once and gazed at me
open-eyed, evidently expecting something from me at once.  This naivete
of expectation drove me to fury, but I restrained myself.

She ought to have tried not to notice, as though everything had been as
usual, while instead of that, she ... and I dimly felt that I should
make her pay dearly for ALL THIS.

"You have found me in a strange position, Liza," I began, stammering
and knowing that this was the wrong way to begin.  "No, no, don't
imagine anything," I cried, seeing that she had suddenly flushed.  "I
am not ashamed of my poverty....  On the contrary, I look with pride
on my poverty.  I am poor but honourable....  One can be poor and
honourable," I muttered.  "However ... would you like tea?...."

"No," she was beginning.

"Wait a minute."

I leapt up and ran to Apollon.  I had to get out of the room somehow.

"Apollon," I whispered in feverish haste, flinging down before him the
seven roubles which had remained all the time in my clenched fist,
"here are your wages, you see I give them to you; but for that you must
come to my rescue: bring me tea and a dozen rusks from the restaurant.
If you won't go, you'll make me a miserable man!  You don't know what
this woman is.... This is--everything!  You may be imagining
something.... But you don't know what that woman is! ..."

Apollon, who had already sat down to his work and put on his spectacles
again, at first glanced askance at the money without speaking or
putting down his needle; then, without paying the slightest attention
to me or making any answer, he went on busying himself with his needle,
which he had not yet threaded.  I waited before him for three minutes
with my arms crossed A LA NAPOLEON.  My temples were moist with sweat.
I was pale, I felt it.  But, thank God, he must have been moved to
pity, looking at me.  Having threaded his needle he deliberately got up
from his seat, deliberately moved back his chair, deliberately took off
his spectacles, deliberately counted the money, and finally asking me
over his shoulder: "Shall I get a whole portion?" deliberately walked
out of the room.  As I was going back to Liza, the thought occurred to
me on the way: shouldn't I run away just as I was in my dressing-gown,
no matter where, and then let happen what would?

I sat down again.  She looked at me uneasily.  For some minutes we were
silent.

"I will kill him," I shouted suddenly, striking the table with my fist
so that the ink spurted out of the inkstand.

"What are you saying!" she cried, starting.

"I will kill him!  kill him!" I shrieked, suddenly striking the table
in absolute frenzy, and at the same time fully understanding how stupid
it was to be in such a frenzy.  "You don't know, Liza, what that
torturer is to me. He is my torturer....  He has gone now to fetch
some rusks; he ..."

And suddenly I burst into tears.  It was an hysterical attack.  How
ashamed I felt in the midst of my sobs; but still I could not restrain
them.

She was frightened.

"What is the matter?  What is wrong?" she cried, fussing about me.

"Water, give me water, over there!" I muttered in a faint voice, though
I was inwardly conscious that I could have got on very well without
water and without muttering in a faint voice.  But I was, what is
called, PUTTING IT ON, to save appearances, though the attack was a
genuine one.

She gave me water, looking at me in bewilderment.  At that moment
Apollon brought in the tea.  It suddenly seemed to me that this
commonplace, prosaic tea was horribly undignified and paltry after all
that had happened, and I blushed crimson.  Liza looked at Apollon with
positive alarm.  He went out without a glance at either of us.

"Liza, do you despise me?" I asked, looking at her fixedly, trembling
with impatience to know what she was thinking.

She was confused, and did not know what to answer.

"Drink your tea," I said to her angrily.  I was angry with myself, but,
of course, it was she who would have to pay for it.  A horrible spite
against her suddenly surged up in my heart; I believe I could have
killed her.  To revenge myself on her I swore inwardly not to say a
word to her all the time.  "She is the cause of it all," I thought.

Our silence lasted for five minutes.  The tea stood on the table; we
did not touch it.  I had got to the point of purposely refraining from
beginning in order to embarrass her further; it was awkward for her to
begin alone.  Several times she glanced at me with mournful perplexity.
I was obstinately silent.  I was, of course, myself the chief sufferer,
because I was fully conscious of the disgusting meanness of my spiteful
stupidity, and yet at the same time I could not restrain myself.

"I want to... get away ... from there altogether," she began, to break
the silence in some way, but, poor girl, that was just what she ought
not to have spoken about at such a stupid moment to a man so stupid as
I was. My heart positively ached with pity for her tactless and
unnecessary straightforwardness.  But something hideous at once stifled
all compassion in me; it even provoked me to greater venom.  I did not
care what happened.  Another five minutes passed.

"Perhaps I am in your way," she began timidly, hardly audibly, and was
getting up.

But as soon as I saw this first impulse of wounded dignity I positively
trembled with spite, and at once burst out.

"Why have you come to me, tell me that, please?" I began, gasping for
breath and regardless of logical connection in my words.  I longed to
have it all out at once, at one burst; I did not even trouble how to
begin.  "Why have you come?  Answer, answer," I cried, hardly knowing
what I was doing.  "I'll tell you, my good girl, why you have come.
You've come because I talked sentimental stuff to you then.  So now you
are soft as butter and longing for fine sentiments again.  So you may
as well know that I was laughing at you then.  And I am laughing at you
now.  Why are you shuddering?  Yes, I was laughing at you!  I had been
insulted just before, at dinner, by the fellows who came that evening
before me.  I came to you, meaning to thrash one of them, an officer;
but I didn't succeed, I didn't find him; I had to avenge the insult on
someone to get back my own again; you turned up, I vented my spleen on
you and laughed at you.  I had been humiliated, so I wanted to
humiliate; I had been treated like a rag, so I wanted to show my power....
That's what it was, and you imagined I had come there on purpose
to save you.  Yes?  You imagined that?  You imagined that?"

I knew that she would perhaps be muddled and not take it all in
exactly, but I knew, too, that she would grasp the gist of it, very
well indeed.  And so, indeed, she did.  She turned white as a
handkerchief, tried to say something, and her lips worked painfully;
but she sank on a chair as though she had been felled by an axe.  And
all the time afterwards she listened to me with her lips parted and her
eyes wide open, shuddering with awful terror.  The cynicism, the
cynicism of my words overwhelmed her....

"Save you!" I went on, jumping up from my chair and running up and down
the room before her.  "Save you from what?  But perhaps I am worse than
you myself.  Why didn't you throw it in my teeth when I was giving you
that sermon: 'But what did you come here yourself for?  was it to read
us a sermon?'  Power, power was what I wanted then, sport was what I
wanted, I wanted to wring out your tears, your humiliation, your
hysteria--that was what I wanted then!  Of course, I couldn't keep it
up then, because I am a wretched creature, I was frightened, and, the
devil knows why, gave you my address in my folly.  Afterwards, before I
got home, I was cursing and swearing at you because of that address, I
hated you already because of the lies I had told you.  Because I only
like playing with words, only dreaming, but, do you know, what I really
want is that you should all go to hell.  That is what I want.  I want
peace; yes, I'd sell the whole world for a farthing, straight off, so
long as I was left in peace. Is the world to go to pot, or am I to go
without my tea?  I say that the world may go to pot for me so long as I
always get my tea.  Did you know that, or not?  Well, anyway, I know
that I am a blackguard, a scoundrel, an egoist, a sluggard.  Here I
have been shuddering for the last three days at the thought of your
coming.  And do you know what has worried me particularly for these
three days?  That I posed as such a hero to you, and now you would see
me in a wretched torn dressing-gown, beggarly, loathsome. I told you
just now that I was not ashamed of my poverty; so you may as well know
that I am ashamed of it; I am more ashamed of it than of anything, more
afraid of it than of being found out if I were a thief, because I am as
vain as though I had been skinned and the very air blowing on me hurt.
Surely by now you must realise that I shall never forgive you for
having found me in this wretched dressing-gown, just as I was flying at
Apollon like a spiteful cur.  The saviour, the former hero, was flying
like a mangy, unkempt sheep-dog at his lackey, and the lackey was
jeering at him!  And I shall never forgive you for the tears I could
not help shedding before you just now, like some silly woman put to
shame!  And for what I am confessing to you now, I shall never forgive
you either! Yes--you must answer for it all because you turned up like
this, because I am a blackguard, because I am the nastiest, stupidest,
absurdest and most envious of all the worms on earth, who are not a bit
better than I am, but, the devil knows why, are never put to confusion;
while I shall always be insulted by every louse, that is my doom!  And
what is it to me that you don't understand a word of this!  And what do
I care, what do I care about you, and whether you go to ruin there or
not?  Do you understand?  How I shall hate you now after saying this,
for having been here and listening. Why, it's not once in a lifetime a
man speaks out like this, and then it is in hysterics!  ...  What more
do you want?  Why do you still stand confronting me, after all this?
Why are you worrying me?  Why don't you go?"

But at this point a strange thing happened.  I was so accustomed to
think and imagine everything from books, and to picture everything in
the world to myself just as I had made it up in my dreams beforehand,
that I could not all at once take in this strange circumstance.  What
happened was this: Liza, insulted and crushed by me, understood a great
deal more than I imagined.  She understood from all this what a woman
understands first of all, if she feels genuine love, that is, that I
was myself unhappy.

The frightened and wounded expression on her face was followed first by
a look of sorrowful perplexity.  When I began calling myself a
scoundrel and a blackguard and my tears flowed (the tirade was
accompanied throughout by tears) her whole face worked convulsively.
She was on the point of getting up and stopping me; when I finished she
took no notice of my shouting: "Why are you here, why don't you go
away?" but realised only that it must have been very bitter to me to
say all this.  Besides, she was so crushed, poor girl; she considered
herself infinitely beneath me; how could she feel anger or resentment?
She suddenly leapt up from her chair with an irresistible impulse and
held out her hands, yearning towards me, though still timid and not
daring to stir....  At this point there was a revulsion in my heart
too.  Then she suddenly rushed to me, threw her arms round me and burst
into tears.  I, too, could not restrain myself, and sobbed as I never
had before.

"They won't let me ... I can't be good!" I managed to articulate; then
I went to the sofa, fell on it face downwards, and sobbed on it for a
quarter of an hour in genuine hysterics.  She came close to me, put her
arms round me and stayed motionless in that position.  But the trouble
was that the hysterics could not go on for ever, and (I am writing the
loathsome truth) lying face downwards on the sofa with my face thrust
into my nasty leather pillow, I began by degrees to be aware of a
far-away, involuntary but irresistible feeling that it would be awkward
now for me to raise my head and look Liza straight in the face.  Why
was I ashamed?  I don't know, but I was ashamed.  The thought, too,
came into my overwrought brain that our parts now were completely
changed, that she was now the heroine, while I was just a crushed and
humiliated creature as she had been before me that night--four days
before....  And all this came into my mind during the minutes I was
lying on my face on the sofa.

My God! surely I was not envious of her then.

I don't know, to this day I cannot decide, and at the time, of course,
I was still less able to understand what I was feeling than now.  I
cannot get on without domineering and tyrannising over someone, but ...
there is no explaining anything by reasoning and so it is useless to
reason.

I conquered myself, however, and raised my head; I had to do so sooner
or later ... and I am convinced to this day that it was just because I
was ashamed to look at her that another feeling was suddenly kindled
and flamed up in my heart ... a feeling of mastery and possession.  My
eyes gleamed with passion, and I gripped her hands tightly.  How I
hated her and how I was drawn to her at that minute!  The one feeling
intensified the other.  It was almost like an act of vengeance.  At
first there was a look of amazement, even of terror on her face, but
only for one instant. She warmly and rapturously embraced me.

 Apollon invites Liza in, so we cut to her standing in front of the Underground Man awkwardly. And, just as he imagined, the Underground Man is ashamed of his ratty dressing down. He tells her to sit down. She does. And suddenly, he feels like, since this is all her fault, she should have to pay for it. In a lecturing tone, he begins to explain that, despite all appearances, he is not ashamed of his poverty. But he cuts himself off by going to fetch some tea, which is a great excuse for running out of the room. So he runs out, finds Apollon, and demands that tea be brought immediately. He explains in a frenzy that this is very important, that this woman "is everything." Apollon takes his sweet time before standing up and getting around to the tea business. The Underground Man goes back to Liza, but not before contemplating whether he should just run away, in his dressing gown and all. The first thing he does when he gets back to his room is declare to Liza that he's going to kill Apollon, his torturer and the bane of existence. Needless to say, the young prostitute is confused. When the Underground Man bursts into tears, she tries to comfort him. The Underground Man, in the midst of his panic attack, asks for water, though he knows that he's faking both his thirst and the faint voice in which he asks for water. Does he really need water, he wonders? Not really, he concludes. When Apollon brings in the tea and again leaves, the Underground Man is suddenly struck by how undignified and crude this whole scene is. He is suddenly angry at Liza beyond all words, because she is the cause of it. The tea sits on the table untouched and five terrible minutes of silence go by. Finally, she pulls herself together and sputters out something about her wanting to leave the brothel. The Underground Man declares - to us, not to Liza - that this was the worst thing she could have said to such a stupid man as himself. He starts to pity her, but this quickly turns to further rage against her. Liza suggests that maybe she should leave. This provokes the Underground Man to begin another lecture. He begins by asking her, rhetorically, why she has come to see him. He then suggests the reason lies in his sentimentality. Well, he explains, she should know that he was faking it. In fact, he was just laughing at her the whole time. In fact, he's laughing at her right now. He admits to her that, on the night he came to see her, he had been humiliated. He explains that he wanted to humiliate someone else in return, wanted to feel as though he was powerful, too. Liza sinks into her chair while the Underground Man continues. He could never have really wanted to save her, he explains. He just wanted power. He only gave his address to her by accident, because he was overwhelmed with the passion of the moment. What does he really want? What he really wants is for everyone to go to hell. He only cares about himself. In fact, as far as he's concerned, he'd rather the whole world go to hell than miss his afternoon tea. Then his tone seems to shift. What has most worried him since he left the brothel, he says, is that she would come to him and see that he isn't really a hero after all, that he's in fact a slovenly man of poverty. Actually, he says, he'd like to take back what he said earlier about not being ashamed of his poverty. He is ashamed of it. A lot. So much so that he'll never forgive her for seeing him in his ratty dressing gown. As for the fact that he just cried in front of her, he will never forgive her for that, either. He is a nasty, stupid worm, he tells her - just like everyone else - and it is his doom that everyone will insult him even though they're all nasty stupid worms, too. He adds that it is only once in a lifetime that a man speaks out this way, in these kinds of hysterics. At this point, the narrator Underground Man tells us, a very strange thing happened. Liza really understood what he was saying. She understood that he was very unhappy. She stands up, rushes forward, and throws her arms around him. The Underground Man, though he claims he was repulsed by her, sobs into her shoulder. The most he manages to say is, "They won't let me...I can't be good!" before he collapses completely. As he lies sobbing face down on the couch, the Underground Man realizes that he has reversed roles with Liza. Now she is the heroine and he the one who needs saving. Of course, this disgusts him. What could be worse than envying a prostitute? He breaks his narration for a moment to admit that, even now, at forty, telling us this story, he can't be sure of what he was feeling at the time. But, he concludes, since you can't explain anything by reasoning, it's no use trying. Back to the story. When the Underground Man finally raises his head from the couch, he feels ashamed to look at Liza. At the same time, though, he experiences a feeling "of mastery and possession." He grips her tightly, she embraces him back, and we assume they sleep together for the second time.

