按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
it； perhaps； but at the same time I feel and suspect that I am
lying like a cobbler。
〃Then why have you written all this？〃 you will say to me。 〃I
ought to put you underground for forty years without anything to
do and then come to you in your cellar； to find out what stage
you have reached！ How can a man be left with nothing to do for
forty years？〃
〃Isn't that shameful； isn't that humiliating？〃 you will say；
perhaps； wagging your heads contemptuously。 〃You thirst for life
and try to settle the problems of life by a logical tangle。 And
how persistent； how insolent are your sallies； and at the same
time what a scare you are in！ You talk nonsense and are pleased
with it； you say impudent things and are in continual alarm and
apologising for them。 You declare that you are afraid of nothing
and at the same time try to ingratiate yourself in our good
opinion。 You declare that you are gnashing your teeth and at the
same time you try to be witty so as to amuse us。 You know that
your witticisms are not witty； but you are evidently well
satisfied with their literary value。 You may； perhaps； have
really suffered； but you have no respect for your own suffering。
You may have sincerity； but you have no modesty； out of the
pettiest vanity you expose your sincerity to publicity and
ignominy。 You doubtlessly mean to say something； but hide your
last word through fear； because you have not the resolution to
utter it； and only have a cowardly impudence。 You boast of
consciousness； but you are not sure of your ground； for though
your mind works； yet your heart is darkened and corrupt； and you
cannot have a full； genuine consciousness without a pure heart。
And how intrusive you are； how you insist and grimace！ Lies；
lies； lies！〃
Of course I have myself made up all the things you say。 That；
too； is from underground。 I have been for forty years listening
to you through a crack under the floor。 I have invented them
myself； there was nothing else I could invent。 It is no wonder
that I have learned it by heart and it has taken a literary
form。。。。
But can you really be so credulous as to think that I will print
all this and give it to you to read too？ And another problem：
why do I call you 〃gentlemen；〃 why do I address you as though you
really were my readers？ Such confessions as I intend to make are
never printed nor given to other people to read。 Anyway； I am
not strong…minded enough for that； and I don't see why I should
be。 But you see a fancy has occurred to me and I want to realise
it at all costs。 Let me explain。
Every man has reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone；
but only to his friends。 He has other matters in his mind which
he would not reveal even to his friends； but only to himself； and
that in secret。 But there are other things which a man is afraid
to tell even to himself； and every decent man has a number of
such things stored away in his mind。 The more decent he is； the
greater the number of such things in his mind。 Anyway； I have
only lately determined to remember some of my early adventures。
Till now I have always avoided them； even with a certain
uneasiness。 Now； when I am not only recalling them； but have
actually decided to write an account of them； I want to try the
experiment whether one can； even with oneself； be perfectly open
and not take fright at the whole truth。 I will observe； in
parenthesis； that Heine says that a true autobiography is almost
an impossibility； and that man is bound to lie about himself。 He
considers that Rousseau certainly told lies about himself in his
confessions； and even intentionally lied； out of vanity。 I am
convinced that Heine is right； I quite understand how sometimes
one may； out of sheer vanity； attribute regular crimes to
oneself； and indeed I can very well conceive that kind of vanity。
But Heine judged of people who made their confessions to the
public。 I write only for myself； and I wish to declare once and
for all that if I write as though I were addressing readers； that
is simply because it is easier for me to write in that form。 It
is a form； an empty formI shall never have readers。 I have
made this plain already 。。。
I don't wish to be hampered by any restrictions in the
compilation of my notes。 I shall not attempt any system or
method。 I will jot things down as I remember them。
But here； perhaps； someone will catch at the word and ask me： if
you really don't reckon on readers； why do you make such compacts
with yourselfand on paper toothat is； that you won't attempt
any system or method； that you jot things down as you remember
them； and so on； and so on？ Why are you explaining？ Why do you
apologise？
〃Well； there it is；〃 I answer。
There is a whole psychology in all this； though。 Perhaps it is
simply that I am a coward。 And perhaps that I purposely imagine
an audience before me in order that I may be more dignified while
I write。 There are perhaps thousands of reasons。 Again； what is
my object precisely in writing？ If it is not for the benefit of
the public why should I not simply recall these incidents in my
own mind without putting them on paper？
Quite so； but yet it is more imposing on paper。 There is
something more impressive in it； I shall be better able to
criticise myself and improve my style。 Besides； I shall perhaps
obtain actual relief from writing。 Today； for instance； I am
particularly oppressed by one memory of a distant past。 It came
back vividly to my mind a few days ago； and has remained haunting
me like an annoying tune that one cannot get rid of。 And yet I
must get rid of it somehow。 I have hundreds of such
reminiscences； but at times some one stands out from the hundred
and oppresses me。 For some reason I believe that if I write it
down I should get rid of it。 Why not try？
Besides； I am bored； and I never have anything to do。 Writing
will be a sort of work。 They say work makes man kind…hearted and
honest。 Well； here is a chance for me； anyway。
Snow is falling today； yellow and dingy。 It fell yesterday； too；
and a few days ago。 I fancy it is the wet snow that has reminded
me of that incident which I cannot shake off now。 And so let it
be a story a propos of the falling snow。
PART II
A PROPOS OF THE WET SNOW
When from dark error's subjugation
My words of passionate exhortation
Had wrenched thy fainting spirit free；
And writhing prone in thine affliction
Thou didst recall with malediction
The vice that had encompassed thee：
And when thy slumbering conscience； fretting
By recollection's torturing flame；
Thou didst reveal the hideous setting
Of thy life's current ere I came：
When suddenly I saw thee sicken；
And weeping； hide thine anguished face；
Revolted； maddened； horror…stricken；
At memories of foul disgrace。
N。A。NEKRASSOV （translated by