About the Wet Snow

A quarter of an hour later I was rushing up and down the room in frenzied impatience, from minute to minute I went up to the screen and peeped through the crack at Liza. She was sitting on the ground with her head leaning against the bed, and must have been crying. But she did not go away, and that irritated me. This time she understood it all. I had insulted her finally, but ... there’s no need to describe it. She realised that my outburst of passion had been simply revenge, a fresh humiliation, and that to my earlier, almost causeless hatred was added now a personal hatred, born of envy.... Though I do not maintain positively that she understood all this distinctly; but she certainly did fully understand that I was a despicable man, and what was worse, incapable of loving her.

Fifteen minutes later, I was pacing the room in a frenzy of impatience. Every minute, I went to the screen and peeked through the crack at Liza. She was sitting on the floor with her head against the bed, and she must have been crying. But she did not leave, and that irritated me. This time she understood it all. I had insulted her for the last time, but ... there’s no need to describe it. She realized that my outburst of passion had been nothing but revenge, another humiliation. She also realized that my earlier, almost causeless hatred had been joined by a personal hatred born of envy.... Though I can’t say for certain that she understood all this clearly. But she certainly understood completely that I was a despicable man and, worse still, incapable of loving her.

I know I shall be told that this is incredible—but it is incredible to be as spiteful and stupid as I was; it may be added that it was strange I should not love her, or at any rate, appreciate her love. Why is it strange? In the first place, by then I was incapable of love, for I repeat, with me loving meant tyrannising and showing my moral superiority. I have never in my life been able to imagine any other sort of love, and have nowadays come to the point of sometimes thinking that love really consists in the right—freely given by the beloved object—to tyrannise over her.

I know people will tell me this is unbelievable. But it is unbelievable that I was so spiteful and stupid. They may also say it was strange that I didn't love her, or at least appreciate her love. Why is that strange? First of all, by then I was incapable of love. I repeat, for me, loving meant controlling someone and showing her that I was morally superior. I have never been able to imagine any other kind of love. And now I sometimes even think that love really means having the right to control the woman you love, a right she freely gives you.

Even in my underground dreams I did not imagine love except as a struggle. I began it always with hatred and ended it with moral subjugation, and afterwards I never knew what to do with the subjugated object. And what is there to wonder at in that, since I had succeeded in so corrupting myself, since I was so out of touch with “real life,” as to have actually thought of reproaching her, and putting her to shame for having come to me to hear “fine sentiments”; and did not even guess that she had come not to hear fine sentiments, but to love me, because to a woman all reformation, all salvation from any sort of ruin, and all moral renewal is included in love and can only show itself in that form.

Even in my underground dreams, I imagined love only as a struggle. I always began with hatred and ended by bringing the other person under my control. Afterward, I never knew what to do with the person I had subdued. And why should that be surprising? I had so corrupted myself and become so detached from “real life” that I actually considered reproaching her. I wanted to shame her for coming to me to hear “fine sentiments.” I did not even guess that she had come not to hear fine sentiments, but to love me. For a woman, all reform, all salvation from any kind of ruin, and all moral renewal are contained in love. They can show themselves only through love.

I did not hate her so much, however, when I was running about the room and peeping through the crack in the screen. I was only insufferably oppressed by her being here. I wanted her to disappear. I wanted “peace,” to be left alone in my underground world. Real life oppressed me with its novelty so much that I could hardly breathe.

Still, I did not hate her as much when I was running around the room and peeking through the screen. Her presence was just unbearably oppressive. I wanted her to disappear. I wanted “peace,” to be left alone in my underground world. Real life was so unfamiliar and oppressive that I could hardly breathe.

But several minutes passed and she still remained, without stirring, as though she were unconscious. I had the shamelessness to tap softly at the screen as though to remind her.... She started, sprang up, and flew to seek her kerchief, her hat, her coat, as though making her escape from me.... Two minutes later she came from behind the screen and looked with heavy eyes at me. I gave a spiteful grin, which was forced, however, to keep up appearances, and I turned away from her eyes.

But several minutes passed, and she still sat motionless, as if she were unconscious. I shamelessly tapped softly on the screen, as if to remind her.... She jumped up and rushed to find her kerchief, hat, and coat, as if escaping from me.... Two minutes later, she came out from behind the screen and looked at me with heavy eyes. I gave her a spiteful grin, though I had to force it to keep up appearances. Then I looked away from her eyes.

“Good-bye,” she said, going towards the door.

“Goodbye,” she said, walking toward the door.

I ran up to her, seized her hand, opened it, thrust something in it and closed it again. Then I turned at once and dashed away in haste to the other corner of the room to avoid seeing, anyway....

I ran up to her, grabbed her hand, and opened it. I shoved something into her hand and closed it again. Then I immediately turned and hurried to the other corner of the room, so I wouldn't have to see, anyway....

I did mean a moment since to tell a lie—to write that I did this accidentally, not knowing what I was doing through foolishness, through losing my head. But I don’t want to lie, and so I will say straight out that I opened her hand and put the money in it ... from spite. It came into my head to do this while I was running up and down the room and she was sitting behind the screen. But this I can say for certain: though I did that cruel thing purposely, it was not an impulse from the heart, but came from my evil brain. This cruelty was so affected, so purposely made up, so completely a product of the brain, of books, that I could not even keep it up a minute—first I dashed away to avoid seeing her, and then in shame and despair rushed after Liza. I opened the door in the passage and began listening.

A moment ago, I meant to lie. I meant to write that I did it by accident, that I foolishly lost my head and didn't know what I was doing. But I don't want to lie, so I'll say it plainly. I opened her hand and put the money in it ... out of spite. The idea came to me while I was pacing the room and she was sitting behind the screen. But I can say this for certain: although I deliberately did that cruel thing, it didn't come from my heart. It came from my evil brain. The cruelty was so artificial, so deliberately contrived, so completely a product of my brain and of books, that I couldn't keep it up for even a minute. First I dashed away to avoid seeing her. Then, ashamed and desperate, I rushed after Liza. I opened the door in the passage and listened.

“Liza! Liza!” I cried on the stairs, but in a low voice, not boldly. There was no answer, but I fancied I heard her footsteps, lower down on the stairs.

“Liza! Liza!” I called from the stairs, but quietly, not boldly. There was no answer, but I thought I heard her footsteps farther down the stairs.

“Liza!” I cried, more loudly.

“Liza!” I called out louder.

No answer. But at that minute I heard the stiff outer glass door open heavily with a creak and slam violently; the sound echoed up the stairs.

No answer. But at that moment I heard the stiff outer glass door creak open and slam shut. The sound echoed up the stairs.

She had gone. I went back to my room in hesitation. I felt horribly oppressed.

She was gone. I hesitated as I went back to my room. I felt terribly weighed down.

I stood still at the table, beside the chair on which she had sat and looked aimlessly before me. A minute passed, suddenly I started; straight before me on the table I saw.... In short, I saw a crumpled blue five-rouble note, the one I had thrust into her hand a minute before. It was the same note; it could be no other, there was no other in the flat. So she had managed to fling it from her hand on the table at the moment when I had dashed into the further corner.

I stood still at the table, beside the chair where she had sat, staring blankly ahead. A minute passed. Suddenly, I started. There on the table in front of me I saw.... Well, I saw a crumpled blue five-rouble note, the one I had pushed into her hand a minute earlier. It was the same note. It could not have been any other, because there was no other note in the flat. So she had managed to toss it onto the table when I rushed to the far corner.

Well! I might have expected that she would do that. Might I have expected it? No, I was such an egoist, I was so lacking in respect for my fellow-creatures that I could not even imagine she would do so. I could not endure it. A minute later I flew like a madman to dress, flinging on what I could at random and ran headlong after her. She could not have got two hundred paces away when I ran out into the street.

Well! I might have expected her to do that. Could I have expected it? No, I was so selfish and had so little respect for other people that I couldn't even imagine her doing it. I couldn't bear it. A minute later, I rushed to get dressed like a madman, throwing on whatever I could find. Then I ran straight after her. She couldn't have gone more than two hundred paces when I ran out into the street.

It was a still night and the snow was coming down in masses and falling almost perpendicularly, covering the pavement and the empty street as though with a pillow. There was no one in the street, no sound was to be heard. The street lamps gave a disconsolate and useless glimmer. I ran two hundred paces to the cross-roads and stopped short.

It was a still night. Snow fell heavily, almost straight down, covering the sidewalk and empty street like a pillow. No one was in the street, and there was no sound. The street lamps cast a bleak, useless glow. I ran two hundred paces to the crossroads and stopped suddenly.

Where had she gone? And why was I running after her?

Where had she gone? And why was I running after her?

Why? To fall down before her, to sob with remorse, to kiss her feet, to entreat her forgiveness! I longed for that, my whole breast was being rent to pieces, and never, never shall I recall that minute with indifference. But—what for? I thought. Should I not begin to hate her, perhaps, even tomorrow, just because I had kissed her feet today? Should I give her happiness? Had I not recognised that day, for the hundredth time, what I was worth? Should I not torture her?

Why? To fall at her feet, sob with remorse, kiss her feet, and beg her forgiveness! I longed to do it. My whole chest felt as if it were being torn apart. Never, never will I remember that moment without feeling something. But what for, I thought. Might I not start to hate her as soon as tomorrow, just because I had kissed her feet today? Would I make her happy? Hadn't I realized that day, for the hundredth time, what I was worth? Wouldn't I torture her?

I stood in the snow, gazing into the troubled darkness and pondered this.

I stood in the snow, staring into the troubled darkness and thinking about this.

“And will it not be better?” I mused fantastically, afterwards at home, stifling the living pang of my heart with fantastic dreams. “Will it not be better that she should keep the resentment of the insult for ever? Resentment—why, it is purification; it is a most stinging and painful consciousness! Tomorrow I should have defiled her soul and have exhausted her heart, while now the feeling of insult will never die in her heart, and however loathsome the filth awaiting her—the feeling of insult will elevate and purify her ... by hatred ... h’m! ... perhaps, too, by forgiveness.... Will all that make things easier for her though? ...”

“And wouldn’t it be better?” I wondered wildly later at home, smothering the sharp pain in my heart with fantasies. “Wouldn’t it be better if she resented the insult forever? Resentment is purifying. It is an awareness that stings and hurts terribly! Tomorrow I would have corrupted her soul and exhausted her heart. But now the feeling of being insulted will never die in her heart. No matter how disgusting the filth awaiting her, that feeling will uplift and purify her ... through hatred ... hmm! ... perhaps through forgiveness too.... But will all that make things easier for her? ...”

And, indeed, I will ask on my own account here, an idle question: which is better—cheap happiness or exalted sufferings? Well, which is better?

And now, I’ll ask a pointless question of my own: which is better, cheap happiness or noble suffering? Well, which is better?

So I dreamed as I sat at home that evening, almost dead with the pain in my soul. Never had I endured such suffering and remorse, yet could there have been the faintest doubt when I ran out from my lodging that I should turn back half-way? I never met Liza again and I have heard nothing of her. I will add, too, that I remained for a long time afterwards pleased with the phrase about the benefit from resentment and hatred in spite of the fact that I almost fell ill from misery.

So I dreamed as I sat at home that evening, almost dead from the pain in my soul. I had never suffered or felt such remorse. Yet when I ran out of my rooms, could there have been the slightest doubt that I would turn back halfway? I never saw Liza again, and I have heard nothing of her. I should add that, for a long time afterward, I remained pleased with my phrase about the benefits of resentment and hatred. This was despite the fact that I nearly fell ill from misery.

Even now, so many years later, all this is somehow a very evil memory. I have many evil memories now, but ... hadn’t I better end my “Notes” here? I believe I made a mistake in beginning to write them, anyway I have felt ashamed all the time I’ve been writing this story; so it’s hardly literature so much as a corrective punishment. Why, to tell long stories, showing how I have spoiled my life through morally rotting in my corner, through lack of fitting environment, through divorce from real life, and rankling spite in my underground world, would certainly not be interesting; a novel needs a hero, and all the traits for an anti-hero are expressly gathered together here, and what matters most, it all produces an unpleasant impression, for we are all divorced from life, we are all cripples, every one of us, more or less. We are so divorced from it that we feel at once a sort of loathing for real life, and so cannot bear to be reminded of it. Why, we have come almost to looking upon real life as an effort, almost as hard work, and we are all privately agreed that it is better in books. And why do we fuss and fume sometimes? Why are we perverse and ask for something else? We don’t know what ourselves. It would be the worse for us if our petulant prayers were answered. Come, try, give any one of us, for instance, a little more independence, untie our hands, widen the spheres of our activity, relax the control and we ... yes, I assure you ... we should be begging to be under control again at once. I know that you will very likely be angry with me for that, and will begin shouting and stamping. Speak for yourself, you will say, and for your miseries in your underground holes, and don’t dare to say all of us—excuse me, gentlemen, I am not justifying myself with that “all of us.” As for what concerns me in particular I have only in my life carried to an extreme what you have not dared to carry halfway, and what’s more, you have taken your cowardice for good sense, and have found comfort in deceiving yourselves. So that perhaps, after all, there is more life in me than in you. Look into it more carefully! Why, we don’t even know what living means now, what it is, and what it is called? Leave us alone without books and we shall be lost and in confusion at once. We shall not know what to join on to, what to cling to, what to love and what to hate, what to respect and what to despise. We are oppressed at being men—men with a real individual body and blood, we are ashamed of it, we think it a disgrace and try to contrive to be some sort of impossible generalised man. We are stillborn, and for generations past have been begotten, not by living fathers, and that suits us better and better. We are developing a taste for it. Soon we shall contrive to be born somehow from an idea. But enough; I don’t want to write more from “Underground.”

Even now, so many years later, all this is somehow a painful, bitter memory. I have many bitter memories now, but ... hadn’t I better end my “Notes” here? I believe I made a mistake when I began writing them. In any case, I’ve felt ashamed the whole time I’ve been writing this story. So it’s hardly literature. It’s more like a punishment meant to correct me. Why tell long stories about how I’ve ruined my life? I’ve ruined it by rotting morally in my corner, without the right surroundings, cut off from real life and nursing bitter spite in my underground world. Such stories would certainly not be interesting. A novel needs a hero, and all the traits of an anti-hero are deliberately gathered here. Most importantly, the whole thing leaves an unpleasant impression. For we are all cut off from life. Every one of us is crippled, more or less. We are so cut off that we immediately feel a kind of disgust for real life. So we can’t bear to be reminded of it. Why, we have almost come to see real life as an effort, almost as hard work. And we all privately agree that life is better in books. Then why do we sometimes fuss and rage? Why do we resist and ask for something else? We don’t know ourselves what we want. We would be worse off if our petulant prayers were answered. Go on, try it. Give any one of us a little more independence, for instance. Untie our hands, give us more room to act, loosen the control over us, and we ... yes, I assure you ... we would immediately beg to be controlled again. I know you will very likely be angry with me for saying that. You’ll start shouting and stamping your feet. You’ll say, speak for yourself and your misery in your underground holes, and don’t dare say all of us. Excuse me, gentlemen, I’m not using “all of us” to justify myself. As for me, I have only carried to an extreme what you have not dared to carry halfway. What’s more, you have mistaken your cowardice for good sense and found comfort in deceiving yourselves. So perhaps, after all, there is more life in me than in you. Look more closely! Why, we don’t even know what living means now, what it is, or what to call it. Leave us alone without books, and we’ll be lost and confused at once. We won’t know what to connect ourselves to, what to cling to, what to love or hate, what to respect or despise. Being human weighs on us. We are ashamed to be people with real, individual bodies and blood. We think it’s a disgrace, and we try to become some kind of impossible, generalized human being. We are stillborn, and for generations we have been conceived without living fathers. That suits us better and better. We are developing a taste for it. Soon we’ll somehow manage to be born from an idea. But enough. I don’t want to write any more from “Underground.”

[The notes of this paradoxalist do not end here, however. He could not refrain from going on with them, but it seems to us that we may stop here.]

[The notes of this paradoxalist do not end here, however. He could not stop himself from continuing them, but we think we may stop here.]