"To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them?—To die,—to sleep,—
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks"
-William Shakespear
I have compiled my notes and decided to bring them to a publisher, with the purpose of putting my thoughts into print. Of course, you may question my sudden decision and beg me to elaborate on my perplexing choice. Why would I seek to make my musings known if the public is so far removed and dull, that it is unlikely anyone would sympathize with my struggles? Most, upon reading my notes would clearly think I am a sad, pathetic man who has gone mad. You may think that it is a lost cause for me to believe that my writing will have any sort of appeal to anyone. My reason, is not to be redeemed or even to be understood. I myself, at the very least, have not gone mad enough to seek finding solace in acceptance by a society of dim-witted men. What I do wish for is to find one soul, only one soul, who would on some level share my disdain, my physical aversion to all things banal. Who would, like me, seek to experience what it real, instead of those trifles that concern everyone else. Someone who is equally sickened by the Simonovs and the Zverkovs and their smug faces.
I am not seeking a friend, a companion. Certainly, I am looking for anyone to love. I am not even looking to escape anguish, for I find comfort in my suffering, more than I would in empty contentment. I have realized that I belong in the "Underground" and that everything on the outside makes me sick to my stomach and makes my blood boil inside my body, as if it were to suddenly burst. Now I will not keep you in suspense any longer and will divulge my so-called "mission", which is a simply noble endeavor, an experiment of sorts. I have been overcome by a new emotion which has gripped my existence and forbade me to focus on anything other than the sick obsession I am about to speak of.
I have been defeated by a curiosity to find, one individual that will understand, that will see clearly and with ease why I have the life that I have, and why no other is possible for me. Is there no one equally intelligent and deep as I am in the entire city of St. Petersburg? Is there no one else that wanders the banks of the Neva knowing that their intelligence is what separates them from the crowd? Is there no one else that has gone through life, hating, that which we are presented with and wanting more? Is there no one else, that wants more? That is dissatisfied as I am, that is sickened almost to death?
I have no purpose in this life, no one who depends on my existence or would be worse off if I were to die tomorrow. But perhaps, if I were to meet a fellow miserable individual, I can be consoled to find out I am not the only one. Perhaps, I should not romanticize. I am just curious. And my curiosity has led me to find a man that is willing to print my notes, for a decent price. What he stands to gain from publishing my writing, I will never know. I know it will never be a literary success, or an acclaimed piece of work, and anyone with half a brain, certainly anyone with the means and the experience of publishing, should know that. But I shall not question this because it is irrelevant to my mission. I have given the man, who goes by Turalevsky, and is a fat and ugly man whose eyes show no understanding, my address and name to be included in the manuscript, once it is published. This will insure that my one compatriot will find me.
You might wonder, what would motivate someone to seek me out, even if a common bond is found. Well, I am convinced that curiosity will have the best of them as well. I am also fully prepared to face the possibility that no one will respond to me. Such an outcome, would make me melancholy for a week or two perhaps, but that will not be different from any other week. Basically, I have come to the realization that I have nothing to lose.
As I received word that my work would indeed be published and distributed, I began to reflect on another possibility. I pondered whether it would fall into the hands of those that know me, and what their reaction would be. I imagined poor Liza reading about herself and probably weeping. Apollon, that vain simpleton, would probably rejoice having been made a celebrity in print. What a fool. As for my former schoolmates, I can't even begin to guess what their reaction would be like. Although, when it comes to Zverkov, I can attest that he will be boastful that his precious honor was hurt. Likely, he will want to duel me. It is not that death scares me, but if I am dead shortly after the publishing, how will I ever meet my one confidant, and satisfy my curiosity? No, the stakes are too high. I thus had to edit my work and strike out most mentions of people, or cleverly change their names.
On a Tuesday, Turalevsky assured me that my notes have gone into print. I had nothing left to do but wait. At his time a terrible cough afflicted me and kept me up all through the night. Every time I set my head down on the pillow, my body jerked into a wheezing cough. Unable to fall asleep I wondered outside, fully acknowledging that the cold air will only make the cough worse, and might make me bedridden for the rest of the week. Regardless, I walked to the Nevsky in the middle of the night, and stared into the water. I imagined my body hitting the almost frozen water, chilling me to the bone. The sensation seemed so real I shuddered, but kept staring nonetheless. What would it be like for your lungs to fill up with water until you cannot breathe? Struggling to regain life when all seems lost, I concluded, must be the height on emotion. I swear, standing upon that bridge I was about to leap into the water. What was there to stop me? Only one thing was left ! To be certain, I clutched the pen in my pocket, to remind me of my published manuscript. I had to find out about the outcome of my decision, so I left the bridge and walked back to my home, avoiding Apollon, for he was sure to question my walking around in the middle of the night. I did not need to explain myself to that puffed-up excuse for a man.
The next morning, I called out to Apollon to fetch me my breakfast. Not hearing an answer I stumbled into the kitchen and called out again. Again no answer. Two days went by, that I was forced to fend for myself, made to be nothing but a slave to my own needs. What a wretched existence that was! I've never felt more lowly or undignified as I did then. I was reduced to nothing, but a peasant. How was I different from a toiler in the field or other simpleton? Undeniably, what use was mu success in studies during my youth at that penal, deplorable school? I felt as if I was the lowest of the lows. I had payed the man for all of next week, and where was he?
The man was nowhere to be found and I was forced to assume he was gone forever. Where would I have gone to look for him? I knew nothing of his outside life. Then, I found myself quickly plunging into a state of despair. Why, you may ask, was I so affected by the disappearance of a man I despised? Gentlemen , this had baffled me as well! Nonetheless, I felt betrayed and confused...I began to question his reason (if he had reason of course) for leaving... Perhaps, he had read my manuscript and was clever enough to understand his part in it (although I went through great pains to mask his appearances)...Perhaps he was destroyed by my harsh judgement and could no longer go on serving me. Poor soul! What was I to do? Has my written word destroyed my servant? I began to ponder the effect it could have on others...
Why did I go through with that dreadful decision after all? I was not thinking clearly ! I underestimated its effect! How could I not have known, it would drive those I knew to such terrible ends. Zverkov will probably shoot himself the minute he realizes how I have made him seem...Perhaps he will come crawling to me seeking to be redeemed, seeking to save face in front of his precious colleagues that seem to hold him in such high esteem. Then he shall not be so popular after all ! I would like to see what Simonov and others think of their dear friend once he his true colors have been exposed to everyone ! Of course, Simonov's fate will not be any better off...Likewise he shall suffer the disdain of his peers and humiliation. Does he deserve it? Not as much as indeed , I will admit, but I will not concern myself with this issue of justice. After all, pondering it shall lead nowhere because the it so full of nuance, so I will remain without opinion.
These thoughts swelled in my head and dreadful, although somehow satisfying, images floated before me. What has become of Apollon? Has he, without a doubt, left this world because he could not go on living, with his impaired nature thus revealed? Was his choice the noblest end for the wretched soul? What agony he must have encountered, what height of emotion! The same could be said for Zverkov, if he is capable of such feelings, but I doubt that he is. Maybe I have rescued both Zverkov and Apollon from their meaningless existence and have driven them to realize what life really is- arbitrary existence...I have likely proven to them that their goals in life are so monotonous and feeble they make me sick. But forgive my digression, gentlemen, for what happened next is of much larger consequence.
Looking out of my window I noticed a familiar silhouette. It was Liza, clutching what looked to be a stack of papers under her frail arm. She stood on the street, as if contemplating her next move. I kneeled down so she would not see me standing at my window staring at her. What was she doing here? This question plagued me. She looked so sickly and decrepit I wondered if the consumption had gotten the best of her at last. What was that stack of papers under her arm? Could it be the manuscript written by own hand? How quickly she has gotten a hold of it! She looks so nervous, so tense...Surely, she is here to confront me about it...There she stood. Time seemed to stand still, as I watched her figure cross the street and head towards the direction of my building. At last ! I will hear someone's thought on my most inner musings...Curiosity swelled inside of me as I watched her draw nearer and nearer, step by step, her steps seemingly echoing inside my room. I closed the window draped and retreated into my bedroom. She should be here any minute, and I do not wish for her to think I have been standing at my window waiting for her arrival.
On the contrary, I shall act surprised, but not happily surprised. I will stumble over her name as if I had forgotten it...Ah, there it is ! A faint knock upon my door. I peered at her through the peephole, and waited for her to knock again. Was that panic in her eyes? Fear? I heard the knock a second time now, and slowly turned the knob to let Liza into my apartment.
She looked very old, not at all like I had remembered her. Of course, the last time I saw her was years ago, so that was to be expected. Still, something struck me about her. She was older indeed, but her gaze, her overall demeanor seemed to have changed.
"What are you doing here?" I asked. I was very calm. I came across as if I did not really care for her presence.
"I was in the neighborhood" she quickly replied and paused.
I could tell she was about to speak. She was about to tell me she had read my notes. Inside, I was ecstatic. It had made an impression on her. I was convinced that it had changed her life. I stared at the pieces of paper under her arm. I wondered how long it took her to read it. She probably wept as she turned the pages, realizing what a fool she was. What a fool everyone was.
"I want you to take a look at this for me" she finally spoke. "I know that perhaps, it is awfully brazen for me to ask for your assistance, but I only had a simple question...And I was around...I understand it has been a long time, and we did not part on good terms, but time heals all I have been told."
She fumbled with the papers on her hands, finally pulling one out and handing it to me. I stared at it in disbelief. It was a government issued paper about some kind of deed! What business did she have handing it to me?
"Maybe you can help me, since you are a civil servant. It would save me some time...I know it's strange for me to be stopping in like this, but my desire to save time overcame any fear of awkwardness I had." She spoke so clearly and plainly I was amazed by her performance. Surely she had come here for some other purpose she was hiding.
"I have a quick question..."she continued, but I had to interrupt her.
"If this is your purpose in coming here," I began, and my voice trembled. "Then I will not help you! I am retired and want nothing to do with these menial matters any longer...I have loathed my job, and now that I have escaped it I will not return to it. Certainly, not to help you."
She shrugged. "I expected as much", she said. With, that she stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind her.
I stood there in disbelief. I had expected an entirely different exchange. "Was she better off now ? Was she no longer making her living on the street?" you might wonder. I wondered as well, but I was not about to ask her for an answer. What a vile human being! I did not care for her. Those papers under her arm were merely worthless government documents, she expected me to care about.
I suddenly felt exhausted. I had gotten anxious about something. Anxious about another human beings and what they might be thinking. Who was I kidding? Why would she ever read my notes? She's practically illiterate...Why would anyone read it, or recognize its worth? It has no worth. There is not one more like me! I am fool to have expected to find someone else! What a sham, I cried out with embarrassment, with anguish. I was such a fool! I am sure, you gentlemen, knew it from the very beginning!
I ran to my bedroom and recovered my original manuscript from my drawer. There it was ! I should have never gone through with the entire ordeal. What a terrible decision I had made! Why, have I decided at this point in my life, to suddenly care about something? I felt choked up and ran into the street for some air, still holding the manuscript in my hands.
I walked to the banks of the Neva and looked into the water. I had stood here only a couple of days ago. What stopped my from jumping in then? Oh, yes, I was naively waiting for discover a fellow soul. I threw my papers into the water and watched them slowly flow away. Then, I stepped over the railing and threw myself into the water.