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　Juliet　Soskice）。
  I
  At　that　time　I　was　only　twenty…four。　　My　life　was　even　then
  gloomy；　ill…regulated；　and　as　solitary　as　that　of　a　savage。　　I
  made　friends　with　no　one　and　positively　avoided　talking；　and
  buried　myself　more　and　more　in　my　hole。　　At　work　in　the　office　I
  never　looked　at　anyone；　and　was　perfectly　well　aware　that　my
  companions　looked　upon　me；　not　only　as　a　queer　fellow；　but　even
  looked　upon　meI　always　fancied　thiswith　a　sort　of　loathing。
  I　sometimes　wondered　why　it　was　that　nobody　except　me　fancied
  that　he　was　looked　upon　with　aversion？　　One　of　the　clerks　had　a
  most　repulsive；　pock…marked　face；　which　looked　positively
  villainous。　　I　believe　I　should　not　have　dared　to　look　at　anyone
  with　such　an　unsightly　countenance。　　Another　had　such　a　very
  dirty　old　uniform　that　there　was　an　unpleasant　odour　in　his
  proximity。　　Yet　not　one　of　these　gentlemen　showed　the　slightest
  self…consciousnesseither　about　their　clothes　or　their
  countenance　or　their　character　in　any　way。　　Neither　of　them　ever
  imagined　that　they　were　looked　at　with　repulsion；　if　they　had
  imagined　it　they　would　not　have　mindedso　long　as　their
  superiors　did　not　look　at　them　in　that　way。　　It　is　clear　to　me
  now　that；　owing　to　my　unbounded　vanity　and　to　the　high　standard　I
  set　for　myself；　I　often　looked　at　myself　with　furious　discontent；
  which　verged　on　loathing；　and　so　I　inwardly　attributed　the　same
  feeling　to　everyone。　　I　hated　my　face；　for　instance：　I　thought　it
  disgusting；　and　even　suspected　that　there　was　something　base　in
  my　expression；　and　so　every　day　when　I　turned　up　at　the　office　I
  tried　to　behave　as　independently　as　possible；　and　to　assume　a
  lofty　expression；　so　that　I　might　not　be　suspected　of　being
  abject。　　〃My　face　may　be　ugly；〃　I　thought；　〃but　let　it　be　lofty；
  expressive；　and；　above　all；　_extremely_　intelligent。〃　But　I　was
  positively　and　painfully　certain　that　it　was　impossible　for　my
  countenance　ever　to　express　those　qualities。　　And　what　was　worst
  of　all；　I　thought　it　actually　stupid　looking；　and　I　would　have
  been　quite　satisfied　if　I　could　have　looked　intelligent。　　In
  fact；　I　would　even　have　put　up　with　looking　base　if；　at　the　same
  time；　my　face　could　have　been　thought　strikingly　intelligent。
  Of　course；　I　hated　my　fellow　clerks　one　and　all；　and　I　despised
  them　all；　yet　at　the　same　time　I　was；　as　it　were；　afraid　of　them。
  In　fact；　it　happened　at　times　that　I　thought　more　highly　of　them
  than　of　myself。　　It　somehow　happened　quite　suddenly　that　I
  alternated　between　despising　them　and　thinking　them　superior　to
  myself。　　A　cultivated　and　decent　man　cannot　be　vain　without
  setting　a　fearfully　high　standard　for　himself；　and　without
  despising　and　almost　hating　himself　at　certain　moments。　　But
  whether　I　despised　them　or　thought　them　superior　I　dropped　my
  eyes　almost　every　time　I　met　anyone。　　I　even　made　experiments
  whether　I　could　face　so　and　so's　looking　at　me；　and　I　was　always
  the　first　to　drop　my　eyes。　　This　worried　me　to　distraction。　　I
  had　a　sickly　dread；　too；　of　being　ridiculous；　and　so　had　a
  slavish　passion　for　the　conventional　in　everything　external。　　I
  loved　to　fall　into　the　common　rut；　and　had　a　whole…hearted　terror
  of　any　kind　of　eccentricity　in　myself。　　But　how　could　I　live　up
  to　it？　　I　was　morbidly　sensitive　as　a　man　of　our　age　should　be。
  They　were　all　stupid；　and　as　like　one　another　as　so　many　sheep。
  Perhaps　I　was　the　only　one　in　the　office　who　fancied　that　I　was　a
  coward　and　a　slave；　and　I　fancied　it　just　because　I　was　more
  highly　developed。　　But　it　was　not　only　that　I　fancied　it；　it
  really　was　so。　　I　was　a　coward　and　a　slave。　　I　say　this　without
  the　slightest　embarrassment。　Every　decent　man　of　our　age　must　be
  a　coward　and　a　slave。　　That　is　his　normal　condition。　　Of　that　I
  am　firmly　persuaded。　　He　is　made　and　constructed　to　that　very
  end。　　And　not　only　at　the　present　time　owing　to　s