Notes from the Underground
Page 5
V
Come, can a man who attempts to find enjoyment in the very feeling ofhis own degradation possibly have a spark of respect for himself? I amnot saying this now from any mawkish kind of remorse. And, indeed, Icould never endure saying, "Forgive me, Papa, I won't do it again," notbecause I am incapable of saying that--on the contrary, perhaps justbecause I have been too capable of it, and in what a way, too. Asthough of design I used to get into trouble in cases when I was not toblame in any way. That was the nastiest part of it. At the same timeI was genuinely touched and penitent, I used to shed tears and, ofcourse, deceived myself, though I was not acting in the least and therewas a sick feeling in my heart at the time.... For that one could notblame even the laws of nature, though the laws of nature havecontinually all my life offended me more than anything. It isloathsome to remember it all, but it was loathsome even then. Ofcourse, a minute or so later I would realise wrathfully that it was alla lie, a revolting lie, an affected lie, that is, all this penitence,this emotion, these vows of reform. You will ask why did I worrymyself with such antics: answer, because it was very dull to sit withone's hands folded, and so one began cutting capers. That is reallyit. Observe yourselves more carefully, gentlemen, then you willunderstand that it is so. I invented adventures for myself and made upa life, so as at least to live in some way. How many times it hashappened to me--well, for instance, to take offence simply on purpose,for nothing; and one knows oneself, of course, that one is offended atnothing; that one is putting it on, but yet one brings oneself at lastto the point of being really offended. All my life I have had animpulse to play such pranks, so that in the end I could not control itin myself. Another time, twice, in fact, I tried hard to be in love.I suffered, too, gentlemen, I assure you. In the depth of my heartthere was no faith in my suffering, only a faint stir of mockery, butyet I did suffer, and in the real, orthodox way; I was jealous, besidemyself ... and it was all from ENNUI, gentlemen, all from ENNUI;inertia overcame me. You know the direct, legitimate fruit ofconsciousness is inertia, that is, conscioussitting-with-the-hands-folded. I have referred to this already. Irepeat, I repeat with emphasis: all "direct" persons and men of actionare active just because they are stupid and limited. How explain that?I will tell you: in consequence of their limitation they take immediateand secondary causes for primary ones, and in that way persuadethemselves more quickly and easily than other people do that they havefound an infallible foundation for their activity, and their minds areat ease and you know that is the chief thing. To begin to act, youknow, you must first have your mind completely at ease and no trace ofdoubt left in it. Why, how am I, for example, to set my mind at rest?Where are the primary causes on which I am to build? Where are myfoundations? Where am I to get them from? I exercise myself inreflection, and consequently with me every primary cause at once drawsafter itself another still more primary, and so on to infinity. Thatis just the essence of every sort of consciousness and reflection. Itmust be a case of the laws of nature again. What is the result of itin the end? Why, just the same. Remember I spoke just now ofvengeance. (I am sure you did not take it in.) I said that a manrevenges himself because he sees justice in it. Therefore he has founda primary cause, that is, justice. And so he is at rest on all sides,and consequently he carries out his revenge calmly and successfully,being persuaded that he is doing a just and honest thing. But I see nojustice in it, I find no sort of virtue in it either, and consequentlyif I attempt to revenge myself, it is only out of spite. Spite, ofcourse, might overcome everything, all my doubts, and so might servequite successfully in place of a primary cause, precisely because it isnot a cause. But what is to be done if I have not even spite (I beganwith that just now, you know). In consequence again of those accursedlaws of consciousness, anger in me is subject to chemicaldisintegration. You look into it, the object flies off into air, yourreasons evaporate, the criminal is not to be found, the wrong becomesnot a wrong but a phantom, something like the toothache, for which noone is to blame, and consequently there is only the same outlet leftagain--that is, to beat the wall as hard as you can. So you give it upwith a wave of the hand because you have not found a fundamental cause.And try letting yourself be carried away by your feelings, blindly,without reflection, without a primary cause, repelling consciousness atleast for a time; hate or love, if only not to sit with your handsfolded. The day after tomorrow, at the latest, you will begindespising yourself for having knowingly deceived yourself. Result: asoap-bubble and inertia. Oh, gentlemen, do you know, perhaps Iconsider myself an intelligent man, only because all my life I havebeen able neither to begin nor to finish anything. Granted I am ababbler, a harmless vexatious babbler, like all of us. But what is tobe done if the direct and sole vocation of every intelligent man isbabble, that is, the intentional pouring of water through a sieve?