Notes from Underground — Part II A Propos the Wet Snow — Chapter VI

At two in the morning, the narrator rouses in a cramped, dark room, aware he has lain half-conscious beside a silent young woman. Oppressed by shame and spite, he notices Liza’s cold, persistent gaze and breaks the silence by interrogating her about her name, origins, and family, receiving curt replies as the candle dies.

Seeking control, he abruptly recounts a lurid tale of a coffin from a basement brothel and a consumptive girl’s death, using it to argue that Liza’s path leads to an early grave. He exaggerates horrors—waterlogged graves, mockery by onlookers—and predicts her rapid decline through ever “lower” houses, disease, and death. When Liza resists the premise, he insists life is pitiable yet precious.

His irritation sharpening, he contrasts his “freedom” with her supposed “slavery” to a madam, framing her debts as devil’s bondage. He admits coming drunk and claims men may wallow from grief, while portraying their wordless coupling as “hideous,” not love. Liza’s quick assent reveals a shared thought, emboldening his urge to influence her.

He then shifts to sentimental persuasion: the warmth of a parental home, a father’s adoration for a daughter, and the duty and joy of marriage. He denounces loveless families but insists that with love, quarrels reconcile, respect deepens, and children bring “heavenly” happiness. He lingers on tender images of a baby to kindle hope and shame.

Liza’s tone softens, and she listens closely, yet ultimately shields herself with modest irony, telling him he “speaks like a book.” He fails to grasp her guarded feeling, feels stung by the remark, and an evil, retaliatory impulse rises as he thinks, “Wait a bit!”