Notes from a Dead House (Vintage Classics)

by Fyodor Dostoevsky

“Tell me, Petrov,” I asked him, “aren’t your people angry with us?” “Who’s angry?” he asked, as if coming to his senses. “The prisoners, with us … with the noblemen?” “Why should they be?” “Well, because we didn’t come out for the grievance.” “And why should you present a grievance?” he asked, as if trying to understand me. “You eat your own food.” “Ah, my God! But some of yours eat their own food, and they still came out. We should have, too … out of comradeship.” “But … but what kind of comrade are you for us?” he asked in perplexity. I glanced at him quickly: he decidedly did not understand me, did not understand what I was getting at. But I understood him perfectly at that moment. For the first time now, a certain thought that had long been vaguely stirring in me and pursuing me finally became clear, and I suddenly understood something that I had realized only poorly till now. I understood that I would never be accepted as a comrade, even if I was a prisoner a thousand times over, even unto ages of ages, even in the special section. It was Petrov’s look at that moment that especially remained in my memory. In his question, “What kind of comrade are you for us?” such unfeigned naïveté, such simple-hearted perplexity, could be heard. I thought: isn’t there some sort of irony, malice, mockery in these words? Nothing of the sort: you’re simply not a comrade, that’s all. You go your way, and we go ours; you have your business, and we have ours.