No More Learning

Black gloves
seemed to me both more dignified and BON TON than the lemon-coloured
ones which I had contemplated at first. "The colour is too gaudy, it
looks as though one were trying to be conspicuous," and I did not take
the lemon-coloured ones. I had got ready long beforehand a good shirt,
with white bone studs; my overcoat was the only thing that held me
back. The coat in itself was a very good one, it kept me warm; but it
was wadded and it had a raccoon collar which was the height of
vulgarity. I had to change the collar at any sacrifice, and to have a
beaver one like an officer's. For this purpose I began visiting the
Gostiny Dvor and after several attempts I pitched upon a piece of cheap
German beaver. Though these German beavers soon grow shabby and look
wretched, yet at first they look exceedingly well, and I only needed it
for the occasion. I asked the price; even so, it was too expensive.
After thinking it over thoroughly I decided to sell my raccoon collar.
The rest of the money--a considerable sum for me, I decided to borrow
from Anton Antonitch Syetotchkin, my immediate superior, an unassuming
person, though grave and judicious. He never lent money to anyone, but
I had, on entering the service, been specially recommended to him by an
important personage who had got me my berth. I was horribly worried.
To borrow from Anton Antonitch seemed to me monstrous and shameful. I
did not sleep for two or three nights. Indeed, I did not sleep well at
that time, I was in a fever; I had a vague sinking at my heart or else
a sudden throbbing, throbbing, throbbing! Anton Antonitch was
surprised at first, then he frowned, then he reflected, and did after
all lend me the money, receiving from me a written authorisation to
take from my salary a fortnight later the sum that he had lent me.

In this way everything was at last ready. The handsome beaver replaced
the mean-looking raccoon, and I began by degrees to get to work. It
would never have done to act offhand, at random; the plan had to be
carried out skilfully, by degrees. But I must confess that after many
efforts I began to despair: we simply could not run into each other. I
made every preparation, I was quite determined--it seemed as though we
should run into one another directly--and before I knew what I was
doing I had stepped aside for him again and he had passed without
noticing me. I even prayed as I approached him that God would grant me
determination. One time I had made up my mind thoroughly, but it ended
in my stumbling and falling at his feet because at the very last
instant when I was six inches from him my courage failed me. He very
calmly stepped over me, while I flew on one side like a ball. That
night I was ill again, feverish and delirious.

And suddenly it ended most happily. The night before I had made up my
mind not to carry out my fatal plan and to abandon it all, and with
that object I went to the Nevsky for the last time, just to see how I
would abandon it all. Suddenly, three paces from my enemy, I
unexpectedly made up my mind--I closed my eyes, and we ran full tilt,
shoulder to shoulder, against one another! I did not budge an inch and
passed him on a perfectly equal footing! He did not even look round
and pretended not to notice it; but he was only pretending, I am
convinced of that. I am convinced of that to this day! Of course, I
got the worst of it--he was stronger, but that was not the point. The
point was that I had attained my object, I had kept up my dignity, I
had not yielded a step, and had put myself publicly on an equal social
footing with him. I returned home feeling that I was fully avenged for
everything. I was delighted. I was triumphant and sang Italian arias.
Of course, I will not describe to you what happened to me three days
later; if you have read my first chapter you can guess for yourself.
The officer was afterwards transferred; I have not seen him now for
fourteen years. What is the dear fellow doing now? Whom is he walking
over?



II

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.

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. . . .

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.

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.

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.

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.



III

I found two of my old schoolfellows with him. They seemed to be
discussing an important matter. All of them took scarcely any notice
of my entrance, which was strange, for I had not met them for years.
Evidently they looked upon me as something on the level of a common
fly. I had not been treated like that even at school, though they all
hated me. I knew, of course, that they must despise me now for my lack
of success in the service, and for my having let myself sink so low,
going about badly dressed and so on--which seemed to them a sign of my
incapacity and insignificance. But I had not expected such contempt.
Simonov was positively surprised at my turning up. Even in old days he
had always seemed surprised at my coming. All this disconcerted me: I
sat down, feeling rather miserable, and began listening to what they
were saying.

They were engaged in warm and earnest conversation about a farewell
dinner which they wanted to arrange for the next day to a comrade of
theirs called Zverkov, an officer in the army, who was going away to a
distant province. This Zverkov had been all the time at school with me
too. I had begun to hate him particularly in the upper forms. In the
lower forms he had simply been a pretty, playful boy whom everybody
liked. I had hated him, however, even in the lower forms, just because
he was a pretty and playful boy. He was always bad at his lessons and
got worse and worse as he went on; however, he left with a good
certificate, as he had powerful interests. During his last year at
school he came in for an estate of two hundred serfs, and as almost all
of us were poor he took up a swaggering tone among us. He was vulgar
in the extreme, but at the same time he was a good-natured fellow, even
in his swaggering. In spite of superficial, fantastic and sham notions
of honour and dignity, all but very few of us positively grovelled
before Zverkov, and the more so the more he swaggered. And it was not
from any interested motive that they grovelled, but simply because he
had been favoured by the gifts of nature. Moreover, it was, as it
were, an accepted idea among us that Zverkov was a specialist in regard
to tact and the social graces. This last fact particularly infuriated
me. I hated the abrupt self-confident tone of his voice, his
admiration of his own witticisms, which were often frightfully stupid,
though he was bold in his language; I hated his handsome, but stupid
face (for which I would, however, have gladly exchanged my intelligent
one), and the free-and-easy military manners in fashion in the
"'forties. " I hated the way in which he used to talk of his future
conquests of women (he did not venture to begin his attack upon women
until he had the epaulettes of an officer, and was looking forward to
them with impatience), and boasted of the duels he would constantly be
fighting. I remember how I, invariably so taciturn, suddenly fastened
upon Zverkov, when one day talking at a leisure moment with his
schoolfellows of his future relations with the fair sex, and growing as
sportive as a puppy in the sun, he all at once declared that he would
not leave a single village girl on his estate unnoticed, that that was
his DROIT DE SEIGNEUR, and that if the peasants dared to protest he
would have them all flogged and double the tax on them, the bearded
rascals. Our servile rabble applauded, but I attacked him, not from
compassion for the girls and their fathers, but simply because they
were applauding such an insect. I got the better of him on that
occasion, but though Zverkov was stupid he was lively and impudent, and
so laughed it off, and in such a way that my victory was not really
complete; the laugh was on his side. He got the better of me on
several occasions afterwards, but without malice, jestingly, casually.
I remained angrily and contemptuously silent and would not answer him.
When we left school he made advances to me; I did not rebuff them, for
I was flattered, but we soon parted and quite naturally. Afterwards I
heard of his barrack-room success as a lieutenant, and of the fast life
he was leading. Then there came other rumours--of his successes in the
service. By then he had taken to cutting me in the street, and I
suspected that he was afraid of compromising himself by greeting a
personage as insignificant as me. I saw him once in the theatre, in
the third tier of boxes. By then he was wearing shoulder-straps. He
was twisting and twirling about, ingratiating himself with the
daughters of an ancient General. In three years he had gone off
considerably, though he was still rather handsome and adroit. One
could see that by the time he was thirty he would be corpulent. So it
was to this Zverkov that my schoolfellows were going to give a dinner
on his departure. They had kept up with him for those three years,
though privately they did not consider themselves on an equal footing
with him, I am convinced of that.

Of Simonov's two visitors, one was Ferfitchkin, a Russianised German--a
little fellow with the face of a monkey, a blockhead who was always
deriding everyone, a very bitter enemy of mine from our days in the
lower forms--a vulgar, impudent, swaggering fellow, who affected a most
sensitive feeling of personal honour, though, of course, he was a
wretched little coward at heart. He was one of those worshippers of
Zverkov who made up to the latter from interested motives, and often
borrowed money from him. Simonov's other visitor, Trudolyubov, was a
person in no way remarkable--a tall young fellow, in the army, with a
cold face, fairly honest, though he worshipped success of every sort,
and was only capable of thinking of promotion. He was some sort of
distant relation of Zverkov's, and this, foolish as it seems, gave him
a certain importance among us. He always thought me of no consequence
whatever; his behaviour to me, though not quite courteous, was
tolerable.

"Well, with seven roubles each," said Trudolyubov, "twenty-one roubles
between the three of us, we ought to be able to get a good dinner.
Zverkov, of course, won't pay. "

"Of course not, since we are inviting him," Simonov decided.

"Can you imagine," Ferfitchkin interrupted hotly and conceitedly, like
some insolent flunkey boasting of his master the General's decorations,
"can you imagine that Zverkov will let us pay alone? He will accept
from delicacy, but he will order half a dozen bottles of champagne. "

"Do we want half a dozen for the four of us? " observed Trudolyubov,
taking notice only of the half dozen.

"So the three of us, with Zverkov for the fourth, twenty-one roubles,
at the Hotel de Paris at five o'clock tomorrow," Simonov, who had been
asked to make the arrangements, concluded finally.

"How twenty-one roubles? " I asked in some agitation, with a show of
being offended; "if you count me it will not be twenty-one, but
twenty-eight roubles. "

It seemed to me that to invite myself so suddenly and unexpectedly
would be positively graceful, and that they would all be conquered at
once and would look at me with respect.

"Do you want to join, too? " Simonov observed, with no appearance of
pleasure, seeming to avoid looking at me. He knew me through and
through.

It infuriated me that he knew me so thoroughly.

"Why not? I am an old schoolfellow of his, too, I believe, and I must
own I feel hurt that you have left me out," I said, boiling over again.

"And where were we to find you? " Ferfitchkin put in roughly.

"You never were on good terms with Zverkov," Trudolyubov added,
frowning.

But I had already clutched at the idea and would not give it up.

"It seems to me that no one has a right to form an opinion upon that,"
I retorted in a shaking voice, as though something tremendous had
happened. "Perhaps that is just my reason for wishing it now, that I
have not always been on good terms with him. "

"Oh, there's no making you out . . . with these refinements," Trudolyubov
jeered.

"We'll put your name down," Simonov decided, addressing me. "Tomorrow
at five-o'clock at the Hotel de Paris. "

"What about the money? " Ferfitchkin began in an undertone, indicating
me to Simonov, but he broke off, for even Simonov was embarrassed.

"That will do," said Trudolyubov, getting up. "If he wants to come so
much, let him. "

"But it's a private thing, between us friends," Ferfitchkin said
crossly, as he, too, picked up his hat. "It's not an official
gathering. "

"We do not want at all, perhaps . . . "

They went away.
Ferfitchkin did not greet me in any way as he went
out, Trudolyubov barely nodded. Simonov, with whom I was left
TETE-A-TETE, was in a state of vexation and perplexity, and looked at
me queerly. He did not sit down and did not ask me to.

"H'm . . . yes . . . tomorrow, then. Will you pay your subscription now?
I just ask so as to know," he muttered in embarrassment.

I flushed crimson, as I did so I remembered that I had owed Simonov
fifteen roubles for ages--which I had, indeed, never forgotten, though
I had not paid it.

"You will understand, Simonov, that I could have no idea when I came
here. . . . I am very much vexed that I have forgotten. . . . "

"All right, all right, that doesn't matter. You can pay tomorrow after
the dinner. I simply wanted to know. . . . Please don't. . . "

He broke off and began pacing the room still more vexed. As he walked
he began to stamp with his heels.

"Am I keeping you? " I asked, after two minutes of silence.

"Oh! " he said, starting, "that is--to be truthful--yes. I have to go
and see someone . . . not far from here," he added in an apologetic
voice, somewhat abashed.

"My goodness, why didn't you say so? " I cried, seizing my cap, with an
astonishingly free-and-easy air, which was the last thing I should have
expected of myself.

"It's close by . . . not two paces away," Simonov repeated, accompanying
me to the front door with a fussy air which did not suit him at all.
"So five o'clock, punctually, tomorrow," he called down the stairs
after me. He was very glad to get rid of me. I was in a fury.

"What possessed me, what possessed me to force myself upon them? " I
wondered, grinding my teeth as I strode along the street, "for a
scoundrel, a pig like that Zverkov! Of course I had better not go; of
course, I must just snap my fingers at them. I am not bound in any
way. I'll send Simonov a note by tomorrow's post. . . . "

But what made me furious was that I knew for certain that I should go,
that I should make a point of going; and the more tactless, the more
unseemly my going would be, the more certainly I would go.

And there was a positive obstacle to my going: I had no money. All I
had was nine roubles, I had to give seven of that to my servant,
Apollon, for his monthly wages. That was all I paid him--he had to
keep himself.

Not to pay him was impossible, considering his character. But I will
talk about that fellow, about that plague of mine, another time.

However, I knew I should go and should not pay him his wages.

That night I had the most hideous dreams. No wonder; all the evening I
had been oppressed by memories of my miserable days at school, and I
could not shake them off. I was sent to the school by distant
relations, upon whom I was dependent and of whom I have heard nothing
since--they sent me there a forlorn, silent boy, already crushed by
their reproaches, already troubled by doubt, and looking with savage
distrust at everyone. My schoolfellows met me with spiteful and
merciless jibes because I was not like any of them. But I could not
endure their taunts; I could not give in to them with the ignoble
readiness with which they gave in to one another. I hated them from
the first, and shut myself away from everyone in timid, wounded and
disproportionate pride. Their coarseness revolted me. They laughed
cynically at my face, at my clumsy figure; and yet what stupid faces
they had themselves. In our school the boys' faces seemed in a special
way to degenerate and grow stupider. How many fine-looking boys came
to us! In a few years they became repulsive. Even at sixteen I
wondered at them morosely; even then I was struck by the pettiness of
their thoughts, the stupidity of their pursuits, their games, their
conversations. They had no understanding of such essential things,
they took no interest in such striking, impressive subjects, that I
could not help considering them inferior to myself. It was not wounded
vanity that drove me to it, and for God's sake do not thrust upon me
your hackneyed remarks, repeated to nausea, that "I was only a
dreamer," while they even then had an understanding of life. They
understood nothing, they had no idea of real life, and I swear that
that was what made me most indignant with them. On the contrary, the
most obvious, striking reality they accepted with fantastic stupidity
and even at that time were accustomed to respect success. Everything
that was just, but oppressed and looked down upon, they laughed at
heartlessly and shamefully. They took rank for intelligence; even at
sixteen they were already talking about a snug berth. Of course, a
great deal of it was due to their stupidity, to the bad examples with
which they had always been surrounded in their childhood and boyhood.
They were monstrously depraved. Of course a great deal of that, too,
was superficial and an assumption of cynicism; of course there were
glimpses of youth and freshness even in their depravity; but even that
freshness was not attractive, and showed itself in a certain
rakishness. I hated them horribly, though perhaps I was worse than any
of them. They repaid me in the same way, and did not conceal their
aversion for me. But by then I did not desire their affection: on the
contrary, I continually longed for their humiliation. To escape from
their derision I purposely began to make all the progress I could with
my studies and forced my way to the very top. This impressed them.
Moreover, they all began by degrees to grasp that I had already read
books none of them could read, and understood things (not forming part
of our school curriculum) of which they had not even heard. They took
a savage and sarcastic view of it, but were morally impressed,
especially as the teachers began to notice me on those grounds. The
mockery ceased, but the hostility remained, and cold and strained
relations became permanent between us. In the end I could not put up
with it: with years a craving for society, for friends, developed in
me. I attempted to get on friendly terms with some of my schoolfellows;
but somehow or other my intimacy with them was always strained and soon
ended of itself. Once, indeed, I did have a friend. But I was already
a tyrant at heart; I wanted to exercise unbounded sway over him; I
tried to instil into him a contempt for his surroundings; I required of
him a disdainful and complete break with those surroundings. I
frightened him with my passionate affection; I reduced him to tears, to
hysterics. He was a simple and devoted soul; but when he devoted
himself to me entirely I began to hate him immediately and repulsed
him--as though all I needed him for was to win a victory over him, to
subjugate him and nothing else. But I could not subjugate all of them;
my friend was not at all like them either, he was, in fact, a rare
exception. The first thing I did on leaving school was to give up the
special job for which I had been destined so as to break all ties, to
curse my past and shake the dust from off my feet. . . . And goodness
knows why, after all that, I should go trudging off to Simonov's!

Early next morning I roused myself and jumped out of bed with
excitement, as though it were all about to happen at once. But I
believed that some radical change in my life was coming, and would
inevitably come that day. Owing to its rarity, perhaps, any external
event, however trivial, always made me feel as though some radical
change in my life were at hand. I went to the office, however, as
usual, but sneaked away home two hours earlier to get ready. The great
thing, I thought, is not to be the first to arrive, or they will think
I am overjoyed at coming. But there were thousands of such great
points to consider, and they all agitated and overwhelmed me. I
polished my boots a second time with my own hands; nothing in the world
would have induced Apollon to clean them twice a day, as he considered
that it was more than his duties required of him. I stole the brushes
to clean them from the passage, being careful he should not detect it,
for fear of his contempt. Then I minutely examined my clothes and
thought that everything looked old, worn and threadbare. I had let
myself get too slovenly. My uniform, perhaps, was tidy, but I could
not go out to dinner in my uniform. The worst of it was that on the
knee of my trousers was a big yellow stain. I had a foreboding that
that stain would deprive me of nine-tenths of my personal dignity. I
knew, too, that it was very poor to think so. "But this is no time for
thinking: now I am in for the real thing," I thought, and my heart
sank. I knew, too, perfectly well even then, that I was monstrously
exaggerating the facts. But how could I help it? I could not control
myself and was already shaking with fever. With despair I pictured to
myself how coldly and disdainfully that "scoundrel" Zverkov would meet
me; with what dull-witted, invincible contempt the blockhead
Trudolyubov would look at me; with what impudent rudeness the insect
Ferfitchkin would snigger at me in order to curry favour with Zverkov;
how completely Simonov would take it all in, and how he would despise
me for the abjectness of my vanity and lack of spirit--and, worst of
all, how paltry, UNLITERARY, commonplace it would all be. Of course,
the best thing would be not to go at all. But that was most impossible
of all: if I feel impelled to do anything, I seem to be pitchforked
into it. I should have jeered at myself ever afterwards: "So you
funked it, you funked it, you funked the REAL THING! " On the contrary,
I passionately longed to show all that "rabble" that I was by no means
such a spiritless creature as I seemed to myself. What is more, even in
the acutest paroxysm of this cowardly fever, I dreamed of getting the
upper hand, of dominating them, carrying them away, making them like
me--if only for my "elevation of thought and unmistakable wit. " They
would abandon Zverkov, he would sit on one side, silent and ashamed,
while I should crush him. Then, perhaps, we would be reconciled and
drink to our everlasting friendship; but what was most bitter and
humiliating for me was that I knew even then, knew fully and for
certain, that I needed nothing of all this really, that I did not
really want to crush, to subdue, to attract them, and that I did not
care a straw really for the result, even if I did achieve it. Oh, how
I prayed for the day to pass quickly! In unutterable anguish I went to
the window, opened the movable pane and looked out into the troubled
darkness of the thickly falling wet snow. At last my wretched little
clock hissed out five. I seized my hat and, trying not to look at
Apollon, who had been all day expecting his month's wages, but in his
foolishness was unwilling to be the first to speak about it, I slipped
between him and the door and, jumping into a high-class sledge, on
which I spent my last half rouble, I drove up in grand style to the
Hotel de Paris.



IV

I had been certain the day before that I should be the first to arrive.
But it was not a question of being the first to arrive. Not only were
they not there, but I had difficulty in finding our room. The table
was not laid even. What did it mean? After a good many questions I
elicited from the waiters that the dinner had been ordered not for
five, but for six o'clock. This was confirmed at the buffet too. I
felt really ashamed to go on questioning them. It was only twenty-five
minutes past five. If they changed the dinner hour they ought at least
to have let me know--that is what the post is for, and not to have put
me in an absurd position in my own eyes and . . . and even before the
waiters. I sat down; the servant began laying the table; I felt even
more humiliated when he was present. Towards six o'clock they brought
in candles, though there were lamps burning in the room. It had not
occurred to the waiter, however, to bring them in at once when I
arrived. In the next room two gloomy, angry-looking persons were
eating their dinners in silence at two different tables. There was a
great deal of noise, even shouting, in a room further away; one could
hear the laughter of a crowd of people, and nasty little shrieks in
French: there were ladies at the dinner. It was sickening, in fact. I
rarely passed more unpleasant moments, so much so that when they did
arrive all together punctually at six I was overjoyed to see them, as
though they were my deliverers, and even forgot that it was incumbent
upon me to show resentment.

Zverkov walked in at the head of them; evidently he was the leading
spirit. He and all of them were laughing; but, seeing me, Zverkov drew
himself up a little, walked up to me deliberately with a slight, rather
jaunty bend from the waist. He shook hands with me in a friendly, but
not over-friendly, fashion, with a sort of circumspect courtesy like
that of a General, as though in giving me his hand he were warding off
something. I had imagined, on the contrary, that on coming in he would
at once break into his habitual thin, shrill laugh and fall to making
his insipid jokes and witticisms. I had been preparing for them ever
since the previous day, but I had not expected such condescension, such
high-official courtesy. So, then, he felt himself ineffably superior
to me in every respect! If he only meant to insult me by that
high-official tone, it would not matter, I thought--I could pay him
back for it one way or another. But what if, in reality, without the
least desire to be offensive, that sheepshead had a notion in earnest
that he was superior to me and could only look at me in a patronising
way? The very supposition made me gasp.

"I was surprised to hear of your desire to join us," he began, lisping
and drawling, which was something new. "You and I seem to have seen
nothing of one another. You fight shy of us. You shouldn't. We are
not such terrible people as you think. Well, anyway, I am glad to
renew our acquaintance. "

And he turned carelessly to put down his hat on the window.

"Have you been waiting long? " Trudolyubov inquired.

"I arrived at five o'clock as you told me yesterday," I answered aloud,
with an irritability that threatened an explosion.

"Didn't you let him know that we had changed the hour? " said
Trudolyubov to Simonov.

"No, I didn't. I forgot," the latter replied, with no sign of regret,
and without even apologising to me he went off to order the HORS
D'OEUVRE.

"So you've been here a whole hour? Oh, poor fellow! " Zverkov cried
ironically, for to his notions this was bound to be extremely funny.
That rascal Ferfitchkin followed with his nasty little snigger like a
puppy yapping. My position struck him, too, as exquisitely ludicrous
and embarrassing.

"It isn't funny at all! " I cried to Ferfitchkin, more and more
irritated. "It wasn't my fault, but other people's. They neglected to
let me know. It was . . . it was . . . it was simply absurd. "

"It's not only absurd, but something else as well," muttered
Trudolyubov, naively taking my part. "You are not hard enough upon it.
It was simply rudeness--unintentional, of course. And how could
Simonov . . . h'm!