Underground

With people who know how to revenge themselves and to stand up for themselves in general, how is it done? Why, when they are possessed, let us suppose, by the feeling of revenge, then for the time there is nothing else but that feeling left in their whole being. Such a gentleman simply dashes straight for his object like an infuriated bull with its horns down, and nothing but a wall will stop him. (By the way: facing the wall, such gentlemen—that is, the “direct” persons and men of action—are genuinely nonplussed. For them a wall is not an evasion, as for us people who think and consequently do nothing; it is not an excuse for turning aside, an excuse for which we are always very glad, though we scarcely believe in it ourselves, as a rule. No, they are nonplussed in all sincerity. The wall has for them something tranquillising, morally soothing, final—maybe even something mysterious ... but of the wall later.)

How do people who know how to take revenge and stand up for themselves do it? Well, suppose they are overcome by a desire for revenge. For the time being, nothing else remains in their whole being. Such a man simply charges straight at his goal like a furious bull with its horns lowered. Nothing but a wall will stop him. (By the way, a wall genuinely baffles such men, these “direct” people and men of action. For them, a wall is not a way out, as it is for us people who think and therefore do nothing. It is not an excuse to turn aside, an excuse we are always glad to have, though we hardly believe it ourselves, as a rule. No, they are genuinely baffled. To them, a wall is somehow calming, morally soothing, final, perhaps even mysterious ... but more about the wall later.)

Well, such a direct person I regard as the real normal man, as his tender mother nature wished to see him when she graciously brought him into being on the earth. I envy such a man till I am green in the face. He is stupid. I am not disputing that, but perhaps the normal man should be stupid, how do you know? Perhaps it is very beautiful, in fact. And I am the more persuaded of that suspicion, if one can call it so, by the fact that if you take, for instance, the antithesis of the normal man, that is, the man of acute consciousness, who has come, of course, not out of the lap of nature but out of a retort (this is almost mysticism, gentlemen, but I suspect this, too), this retort-made man is sometimes so nonplussed in the presence of his antithesis that with all his exaggerated consciousness he genuinely thinks of himself as a mouse and not a man. It may be an acutely conscious mouse, yet it is a mouse, while the other is a man, and therefore, et caetera, et caetera. And the worst of it is, he himself, his very own self, looks on himself as a mouse; no one asks him to do so; and that is an important point. Now let us look at this mouse in action. Let us suppose, for instance, that it feels insulted, too (and it almost always does feel insulted), and wants to revenge itself, too. There may even be a greater accumulation of spite in it than in l’homme de la nature et de la vérité. The base and nasty desire to vent that spite on its assailant rankles perhaps even more nastily in it than in l’homme de la nature et de la vérité. For through his innate stupidity the latter looks upon his revenge as justice pure and simple; while in consequence of his acute consciousness the mouse does not believe in the justice of it. To come at last to the deed itself, to the very act of revenge. Apart from the one fundamental nastiness the luckless mouse succeeds in creating around it so many other nastinesses in the form of doubts and questions, adds to the one question so many unsettled questions that there inevitably works up around it a sort of fatal brew, a stinking mess, made up of its doubts, emotions, and of the contempt spat upon it by the direct men of action who stand solemnly about it as judges and arbitrators, laughing at it till their healthy sides ache. Of course the only thing left for it is to dismiss all that with a wave of its paw, and, with a smile of assumed contempt in which it does not even itself believe, creep ignominiously into its mouse-hole. There in its nasty, stinking, underground home our insulted, crushed and ridiculed mouse promptly becomes absorbed in cold, malignant and, above all, everlasting spite. For forty years together it will remember its injury down to the smallest, most ignominious details, and every time will add, of itself, details still more ignominious, spitefully teasing and tormenting itself with its own imagination. It will itself be ashamed of its imaginings, but yet it will recall it all, it will go over and over every detail, it will invent unheard of things against itself, pretending that those things might happen, and will forgive nothing. Maybe it will begin to revenge itself, too, but, as it were, piecemeal, in trivial ways, from behind the stove, incognito, without believing either in its own right to vengeance, or in the success of its revenge, knowing that from all its efforts at revenge it will suffer a hundred times more than he on whom it revenges itself, while he, I daresay, will not even scratch himself. On its deathbed it will recall it all over again, with interest accumulated over all the years and ...

Well, I consider such a direct person the truly normal man. He is just as his tender mother nature wanted him to be when she graciously brought him into the world. I envy such a man until I am green in the face. He is stupid. I don’t dispute that, but perhaps the normal man should be stupid. How do you know? Perhaps stupidity is very beautiful, in fact. And I am even more convinced of this suspicion, if you can call it that, by what happens when you consider the normal man’s opposite. I mean the man of acute consciousness, who has come not from nature’s lap but, of course, from a retort. This is almost mysticism, gentlemen, but I suspect this too. Sometimes this man made in a retort is so bewildered in the presence of his opposite that, despite all his heightened consciousness, he genuinely thinks of himself as a mouse, not a man. He may be an acutely conscious mouse, but he is still a mouse. The other is a man, and therefore, et cetera, et cetera. Worst of all, he himself, his very own self, sees himself as a mouse. No one asks him to do it, and that is an important point. Now let us see this mouse in action. Suppose, for instance, that it feels insulted too, as it almost always does, and wants revenge too. It may even have built up more spite than l’homme de la nature et de la vérité. Perhaps its low, nasty desire to vent that spite on its attacker rankles even more nastily than it does in l’homme de la nature et de la vérité. The latter, being stupid by nature, sees his revenge as pure and simple justice. But because of its acute consciousness, the mouse does not believe its revenge is just. Let us come at last to the deed itself, the act of revenge. Besides the one basic nastiness, the unlucky mouse creates so many other nasty things around it, in the form of doubts and questions. It adds so many unresolved questions to the one question that a kind of fatal brew inevitably forms around it. It is a stinking mess of doubts, emotions, and the contempt spat on it by the direct men of action. They stand solemnly around it as judges and arbiters, laughing at it until their healthy sides ache. Of course, the mouse has only one thing left to do. It waves the whole business away with its paw and creeps shamefully into its mouse hole. It wears a smile of pretended contempt that even it does not believe in. There, in its nasty, stinking underground home, our insulted, crushed, and ridiculed mouse promptly becomes absorbed in cold, malicious, and above all everlasting spite. For forty years, it will remember the injury down to the smallest, most shameful details. Each time, it will add still more shameful details of its own, spitefully teasing and tormenting itself with its imagination. It will be ashamed of what it imagines, but it will still remember everything and go over every detail again and again. It will invent unheard-of things to use against itself, pretending that they might happen, and it will forgive nothing. Maybe it will begin to take revenge too, but in bits and pieces, in trivial ways, from behind the stove, incognito. It will believe neither in its own right to revenge nor in the success of its revenge. It will know that all its efforts at revenge will make it suffer a hundred times more than the man it seeks revenge on. He, I dare say, will not even scratch himself. On its deathbed, it will remember everything all over again, with interest accumulated over all the years and ...

But it is just in that cold, abominable half despair, half belief, in that conscious burying oneself alive for grief in the underworld for forty years, in that acutely recognised and yet partly doubtful hopelessness of one’s position, in that hell of unsatisfied desires turned inward, in that fever of oscillations, of resolutions determined for ever and repented of again a minute later—that the savour of that strange enjoyment of which I have spoken lies. It is so subtle, so difficult of analysis, that persons who are a little limited, or even simply persons of strong nerves, will not understand a single atom of it. “Possibly,” you will add on your own account with a grin, “people will not understand it either who have never received a slap in the face,” and in that way you will politely hint to me that I, too, perhaps, have had the experience of a slap in the face in my life, and so I speak as one who knows. I bet that you are thinking that. But set your minds at rest, gentlemen, I have not received a slap in the face, though it is absolutely a matter of indifference to me what you may think about it. Possibly, I even regret, myself, that I have given so few slaps in the face during my life. But enough ... not another word on that subject of such extreme interest to you.

But the flavor of that strange enjoyment I spoke of lies precisely in that cold, hateful mixture of despair and belief. It lies in consciously burying yourself alive in the underground for forty years because of grief. It lies in seeing how hopeless your situation is, yet partly doubting that it is hopeless. It lies in the hell of unmet desires turned inward. It lies in the fever of wavering, of making resolutions meant to last forever and regretting them a minute later. This enjoyment is so subtle and so hard to analyze that people who are somewhat limited will not understand it at all. Even people with strong nerves will not understand it at all. “Perhaps,” you will add with a grin, “people who have never been slapped in the face will not understand it either.” In this way, you will politely suggest that perhaps I, too, have been slapped in the face. You will suggest that I am speaking from experience. I bet that is what you are thinking. But set your minds at rest, gentlemen. I have not been slapped in the face, though I really do not care what you think about it. Perhaps I even regret that I have slapped so few people in my life. But enough ... not another word on a subject that interests you so much.

I will continue calmly concerning persons with strong nerves who do not understand a certain refinement of enjoyment. Though in certain circumstances these gentlemen bellow their loudest like bulls, though this, let us suppose, does them the greatest credit, yet, as I have said already, confronted with the impossible they subside at once. The impossible means the stone wall! What stone wall? Why, of course, the laws of nature, the deductions of natural science, mathematics. As soon as they prove to you, for instance, that you are descended from a monkey, then it is no use scowling, accept it for a fact. When they prove to you that in reality one drop of your own fat must be dearer to you than a hundred thousand of your fellow-creatures, and that this conclusion is the final solution of all so-called virtues and duties and all such prejudices and fancies, then you have just to accept it, there is no help for it, for twice two is a law of mathematics. Just try refuting it.

I will calmly continue discussing people with strong nerves who do not understand a certain subtle kind of pleasure. In some circumstances, these gentlemen bellow as loudly as bulls. Let us suppose this does them great credit. But as I have already said, when faced with the impossible, they immediately calm down. The impossible means the stone wall! What stone wall? Why, the laws of nature, the conclusions of natural science, mathematics, of course. For example, once they prove that you are descended from a monkey, there is no point in scowling. You must accept it as a fact. Suppose they prove that one drop of your own fat must really be worth more to you than a hundred thousand of your fellow human beings. Suppose they prove that this conclusion is the final answer to all so-called virtues and duties, and all such prejudices and fantasies. Then you just have to accept it. There is no help for it, because two times two is a law of mathematics. Just try refuting it.

“Upon my word, they will shout at you, it is no use protesting: it is a case of twice two makes four! Nature does not ask your permission, she has nothing to do with your wishes, and whether you like her laws or dislike them, you are bound to accept her as she is, and consequently all her conclusions. A wall, you see, is a wall ... and so on, and so on.”

“Believe me, they will shout at you that there’s no point protesting: two plus two makes four! Nature doesn’t ask your permission. She doesn’t care what you want. Whether you like her laws or not, you have to accept her as she is, and therefore all her conclusions. A wall, you see, is a wall ... and so on, and so on.”

Merciful Heavens! but what do I care for the laws of nature and arithmetic, when, for some reason I dislike those laws and the fact that twice two makes four? Of course I cannot break through the wall by battering my head against it if I really have not the strength to knock it down, but I am not going to be reconciled to it simply because it is a stone wall and I have not the strength.

Good heavens! What do I care about the laws of nature and arithmetic? For some reason, I dislike those laws and the fact that two times two is four. Of course, I can't break through a wall by beating my head against it if I lack the strength to knock it down. But I won't accept the wall simply because it is made of stone and I lack the strength.

As though such a stone wall really were a consolation, and really did contain some word of conciliation, simply because it is as true as twice two makes four. Oh, absurdity of absurdities! How much better it is to understand it all, to recognise it all, all the impossibilities and the stone wall; not to be reconciled to one of those impossibilities and stone walls if it disgusts you to be reconciled to it; by the way of the most inevitable, logical combinations to reach the most revolting conclusions on the everlasting theme, that even for the stone wall you are yourself somehow to blame, though again it is as clear as day you are not to blame in the least, and therefore grinding your teeth in silent impotence to sink into luxurious inertia, brooding on the fact that there is no one even for you to feel vindictive against, that you have not, and perhaps never will have, an object for your spite, that it is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, a card-sharper’s trick, that it is simply a mess, no knowing what and no knowing who, but in spite of all these uncertainties and jugglings, still there is an ache in you, and the more you do not know, the worse the ache.

As if such a stone wall were really a comfort, or offered some reason to accept it, simply because it is as true as two times two is four. Oh, how utterly absurd! How much better to understand everything, to recognize it all, all the impossibilities and the stone wall. And not to accept any of those impossibilities or stone walls if accepting them disgusts you. Then, through the most unavoidable logical steps, to reach the most revolting conclusions on that eternal theme. Somehow, you yourself are to blame even for the stone wall, though it is equally clear that you are not to blame at all. And so, grinding your teeth in helpless silence, you sink into luxurious idleness. You brood over the fact that there is no one you can even take revenge on. You have no target for your spite, and perhaps you never will. It is a sleight of hand, a bit of juggling, a cardsharp’s trick. It is simply a mess, with no knowing what or who is behind it. But despite all this uncertainty and trickery, you still ache inside. And the less you know, the worse the ache becomes.