Notes From The Underground 61

‘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 near-ly 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 be-ing 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 cu-riosity, but speaking even more harshly and abruptly than before.

to be contd..