About the Wet Snow

But the period of my dissipation would end and I always felt very sick afterwards. It was followed by remorse—I tried to drive it away; I felt too sick. By degrees, however, I grew used to that too. I grew used to everything, or rather I voluntarily resigned myself to enduring it. But I had a means of escape that reconciled everything—that was to find refuge in “the sublime and the beautiful,” in dreams, of course. I was a terrible dreamer, I would dream for three months on end, tucked away in my corner, and you may believe me that at those moments I had no resemblance to the gentleman who, in the perturbation of his chicken heart, put a collar of German beaver on his great-coat. I suddenly became a hero. I would not have admitted my six-foot lieutenant even if he had called on me. I could not even picture him before me then. What were my dreams and how I could satisfy myself with them—it is hard to say now, but at the time I was satisfied with them. Though, indeed, even now, I am to some extent satisfied with them. Dreams were particularly sweet and vivid after a spell of dissipation; they came with remorse and with tears, with curses and transports. There were moments of such positive intoxication, of such happiness, that there was not the faintest trace of irony within me, on my honour. I had faith, hope, love. I believed blindly at such times that by some miracle, by some external circumstance, all this would suddenly open out, expand; that suddenly a vista of suitable activity—beneficent, good, and, above all, ready made (what sort of activity I had no idea, but the great thing was that it should be all ready for me)—would rise up before me—and I should come out into the light of day, almost riding a white horse and crowned with laurel. Anything but the foremost place I could not conceive for myself, and for that very reason I quite contentedly occupied the lowest in reality. Either to be a hero or to grovel in the mud—there was nothing between. That was my ruin, for when I was in the mud I comforted myself with the thought that at other times I was a hero, and the hero was a cloak for the mud: for an ordinary man it was shameful to defile himself, but a hero was too lofty to be utterly defiled, and so he might defile himself. It is worth noting that these attacks of the “sublime and the beautiful” visited me even during the period of dissipation and just at the times when I was touching the bottom. They came in separate spurts, as though reminding me of themselves, but did not banish the dissipation by their appearance. On the contrary, they seemed to add a zest to it by contrast, and were only sufficiently present to serve as an appetising sauce. That sauce was made up of contradictions and sufferings, of agonising inward analysis, and all these pangs and pin-pricks gave a certain piquancy, even a significance to my dissipation—in fact, completely answered the purpose of an appetising sauce. There was a certain depth of meaning in it. And I could hardly have resigned myself to the simple, vulgar, direct debauchery of a clerk and have endured all the filthiness of it. What could have allured me about it then and have drawn me at night into the street? No, I had a lofty way of getting out of it all.

But my bouts of dissipation would end, and afterward I always felt very sick. Remorse followed. I tried to drive it away, but I felt too sick. Gradually, though, I got used to that too. I got used to everything, or rather, I willingly resigned myself to enduring it. But I had an escape that reconciled me to everything. I took refuge in “the sublime and the beautiful,” in dreams, of course. I was a terrible dreamer. I would spend three months at a time dreaming, tucked away in my corner. Believe me, at those moments I was nothing like the gentleman who, in his chickenhearted anxiety, put a German beaver collar on his overcoat. I suddenly became a hero. I would not have admitted my six-foot lieutenant even if he had called on me. I could not even picture him in front of me then. It is hard to say now what my dreams were or how they could satisfy me. But they satisfied me at the time. Indeed, to some extent, they satisfy me even now. Dreams were especially sweet and vivid after a bout of dissipation. They came with remorse and tears, with curses and transports of joy. At times I was so completely intoxicated, so happy, that there was not the faintest trace of irony in me, on my honour. I had faith, hope, love. At such times I blindly believed that it would all suddenly open out and expand. Some miracle or some outside event would make it happen. Suddenly I would see a prospect of suitable work, helpful and good and, above all, ready made. I had no idea what kind of work it would be. The important thing was that it should be all ready for me. Then I would come out into the light of day, almost riding a white horse and crowned with laurel. I could not imagine myself anywhere but in first place. For that very reason, I was quite content to occupy the lowest place in reality. Either I was a hero or I grovelled in the mud. There was nothing in between. That was my ruin. When I was in the mud, I comforted myself with the thought that at other times I was a hero. And the hero was a cloak for the mud. For an ordinary man it was shameful to defile himself, but a hero was too lofty to be utterly defiled. So a hero could defile himself. It is worth noting that these attacks of the “sublime and the beautiful” came even during my bouts of dissipation, just when I was touching bottom. They came in separate bursts, as if to remind me they were there. But their appearance did not drive away the dissipation. On the contrary, they seemed to give it zest by contrast. They were present only enough to serve as an appetising sauce. That sauce was made of contradictions and suffering, of agonising self-analysis. All these pangs and pinpricks gave my dissipation a certain piquancy, even a significance. In fact, they served perfectly as an appetising sauce. There was a certain depth of meaning in it. I could hardly have resigned myself to the simple, vulgar, straightforward debauchery of a clerk. Nor could I have endured all its filth. What could have lured me to it then, and drawn me out into the street at night? No, I had a lofty way of escaping it all.

And what loving-kindness, oh Lord, what loving-kindness I felt at times in those dreams of mine! in those “flights into the sublime and the beautiful”; though it was fantastic love, though it was never applied to anything human in reality, yet there was so much of this love that one did not feel afterwards even the impulse to apply it in reality; that would have been superfluous. Everything, however, passed satisfactorily by a lazy and fascinating transition into the sphere of art, that is, into the beautiful forms of life, lying ready, largely stolen from the poets and novelists and adapted to all sorts of needs and uses. I, for instance, was triumphant over everyone; everyone, of course, was in dust and ashes, and was forced spontaneously to recognise my superiority, and I forgave them all. I was a poet and a grand gentleman, I fell in love; I came in for countless millions and immediately devoted them to humanity, and at the same time I confessed before all the people my shameful deeds, which, of course, were not merely shameful, but had in them much that was “sublime and beautiful” something in the Manfred style. Everyone would kiss me and weep (what idiots they would be if they did not), while I should go barefoot and hungry preaching new ideas and fighting a victorious Austerlitz against the obscurantists. Then the band would play a march, an amnesty would be declared, the Pope would agree to retire from Rome to Brazil; then there would be a ball for the whole of Italy at the Villa Borghese on the shores of Lake Como, Lake Como being for that purpose transferred to the neighbourhood of Rome; then would come a scene in the bushes, and so on, and so on—as though you did not know all about it? You will say that it is vulgar and contemptible to drag all this into public after all the tears and transports which I have myself confessed. But why is it contemptible? Can you imagine that I am ashamed of it all, and that it was stupider than anything in your life, gentlemen? And I can assure you that some of these fancies were by no means badly composed.... It did not all happen on the shores of Lake Como. And yet you are right—it really is vulgar and contemptible. And most contemptible of all it is that now I am attempting to justify myself to you. And even more contemptible than that is my making this remark now. But that’s enough, or there will be no end to it; each step will be more contemptible than the last....

And what loving-kindness, oh Lord, what loving-kindness I sometimes felt in those dreams of mine! In those “flights into the sublime and the beautiful”! It was imaginary love, and I never actually applied it to any human being. But there was so much of it that afterward I felt no urge to apply it in real life. That would have been unnecessary. Instead, everything passed easily and pleasantly into the world of art. That is, it passed into ready-made, beautiful forms of life. These were mostly stolen from poets and novelists and adapted to all sorts of needs and uses. For instance, I triumphed over everyone. Everyone, of course, was in dust and ashes and felt compelled to recognize my superiority. And I forgave them all. I was a poet and a grand gentleman. I fell in love. I inherited countless millions and immediately devoted them to humanity. At the same time, I confessed my shameful deeds before everyone. Of course, these deeds were not merely shameful. There was much in them that was “sublime and beautiful”, something in the style of Manfred. Everyone would kiss me and weep (what idiots they would be if they did not). Meanwhile, I would go barefoot and hungry, preaching new ideas. I would fight a victorious Austerlitz against the enemies of enlightenment. Then the band would play a march, and an amnesty would be declared. The Pope would agree to retire from Rome to Brazil. Then there would be a ball for all of Italy at the Villa Borghese, on the shores of Lake Como. Lake Como would be moved near Rome for the occasion. Then would come a scene in the bushes, and so on, and so on. As if you did not know all about it? You will say it is vulgar and contemptible to bring all this out in public. Especially after all the tears and raptures I have confessed to. But why is it contemptible? Do you imagine that I am ashamed of it all? Do you imagine it was stupider than anything in your lives, gentlemen? I can assure you that some of these fantasies were by no means badly composed.... They did not all happen on the shores of Lake Como. And yet you are right. It really is vulgar and contemptible. Most contemptible of all is that I am now trying to justify myself to you. Even more contemptible is that I am making this remark now. But that is enough, or there will be no end to it. Each step will be more contemptible than the last....

I could never stand more than three months of dreaming at a time without feeling an irresistible desire to plunge into society. To plunge into society meant to visit my superior at the office, Anton Antonitch Syetotchkin. He was the only permanent acquaintance I have had in my life, and I wonder at the fact myself now. But I only went to see him when that phase came over me, and when my dreams had reached such a point of bliss that it became essential at once to embrace my fellows and all mankind; and for that purpose I needed, at least, one human being, actually existing. I had to call on Anton Antonitch, however, on Tuesday—his at-home day; so I had always to time my passionate desire to embrace humanity so that it might fall on a Tuesday.

I could never spend more than three months dreaming without feeling an irresistible urge to plunge into society. For me, plunging into society meant visiting my superior at the office, Anton Antonitch Syetotchkin. He was the only lasting acquaintance I have ever had, and even now I wonder at that. But I visited him only when that mood came over me. By then, my dreams had become so blissful that I urgently needed to embrace my fellow human beings and all mankind. For that, I needed at least one real, living person. But I had to visit Anton Antonitch on Tuesday, the day he received visitors. So I always had to time my passionate desire to embrace humanity to fall on a Tuesday.

This Anton Antonitch lived on the fourth storey in a house in Five Corners, in four low-pitched rooms, one smaller than the other, of a particularly frugal and sallow appearance. He had two daughters and their aunt, who used to pour out the tea. Of the daughters one was thirteen and another fourteen, they both had snub noses, and I was awfully shy of them because they were always whispering and giggling together. The master of the house usually sat in his study on a leather couch in front of the table with some grey-headed gentleman, usually a colleague from our office or some other department. I never saw more than two or three visitors there, always the same. They talked about the excise duty; about business in the senate, about salaries, about promotions, about His Excellency, and the best means of pleasing him, and so on. I had the patience to sit like a fool beside these people for four hours at a stretch, listening to them without knowing what to say to them or venturing to say a word. I became stupefied, several times I felt myself perspiring, I was overcome by a sort of paralysis; but this was pleasant and good for me. On returning home I deferred for a time my desire to embrace all mankind.

Anton Antonitch lived on the fourth floor of a house in Five Corners. He had four low-ceilinged rooms, each smaller than the last, with a particularly bare and dreary look. He had two daughters and their aunt, who used to pour the tea. One daughter was thirteen and the other fourteen. Both had snub noses, and I was terribly shy around them because they were always whispering and giggling together. The master of the house usually sat on a leather couch in his study, in front of the table. He sat with some grey-haired gentleman, usually a colleague from our office or another department. I never saw more than two or three visitors there, always the same ones. They talked about the excise duty, business in the senate, salaries, promotions, His Excellency, and the best ways to please him, and so on. I had the patience to sit like a fool beside these people for four hours at a time. I listened without knowing what to say or daring to say a word. I grew numb. Several times I felt myself sweating, and a kind of paralysis came over me. But this was pleasant and good for me. When I got home, I put off my desire to embrace all mankind for a while.

I had however one other acquaintance of a sort, Simonov, who was an old schoolfellow. I had a number of schoolfellows, indeed, in Petersburg, but I did not associate with them and had even given up nodding to them in the street. I believe I had transferred into the department I was in simply to avoid their company and to cut off all connection with my hateful childhood. Curses on that school and all those terrible years of penal servitude! In short, I parted from my schoolfellows as soon as I got out into the world. There were two or three left to whom I nodded in the street. One of them was Simonov, who had in no way been distinguished at school, was of a quiet and equable disposition; but I discovered in him a certain independence of character and even honesty I don’t even suppose that he was particularly stupid. I had at one time spent some rather soulful moments with him, but these had not lasted long and had somehow been suddenly clouded over. He was evidently uncomfortable at these reminiscences, and was, I fancy, always afraid that I might take up the same tone again. I suspected that he had an aversion for me, but still I went on going to see him, not being quite certain of it.

I did, however, have one other acquaintance of sorts, Simonov, an old schoolmate. I had many schoolmates in Petersburg, but I didn’t spend time with them. I had even stopped nodding to them in the street. I believe I had transferred to my department simply to avoid them and cut all ties with my hateful childhood. Damn that school and all those terrible years of hard labor! In short, I parted ways with my schoolmates as soon as I entered the world. There were two or three I still nodded to in the street. One of them was Simonov. He had been unremarkable at school and had a quiet, even temper. But I found in him a certain independence of character and even honesty. I don’t suppose he was particularly stupid, either. At one time, we had shared some rather heartfelt moments. But they hadn’t lasted long, and somehow they had suddenly become clouded. He was clearly uncomfortable remembering those moments. I imagine he was always afraid I might become heartfelt with him again. I suspected he disliked me, but I wasn’t quite sure, so I kept visiting him.

And so on one occasion, unable to endure my solitude and knowing that as it was Thursday Anton Antonitch’s door would be closed, I thought of Simonov. Climbing up to his fourth storey I was thinking that the man disliked me and that it was a mistake to go and see him. But as it always happened that such reflections impelled me, as though purposely, to put myself into a false position, I went in. It was almost a year since I had last seen Simonov.

One day, I could no longer bear being alone. It was Thursday, so I knew Anton Antonitch’s door would be closed. I thought of Simonov. As I climbed to his fourth-floor apartment, I thought that he disliked me and that visiting him was a mistake. But such thoughts always pushed me to put myself in an awkward position, almost as if on purpose. So I went in. I had not seen Simonov for almost a year.