No More Learning

There were two or three left to whom I nodded in
the street. One of them was Simonov, who had been in no way
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 interest. 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 Russianized German--a
little fellow with the face of a monkey, a blockhead who was always
deriding every one, 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 Hôtel de Paris at five o'clock to-morrow," 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. "To-morrow
at five o'clock at the Hôtel 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 _tête-à-tête_,
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 . . . to-morrow, then. Will you pay your subscription now? I
just ask so as to know," he muttered in embarrassment.

I flushed crimson, and 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 to-morrow 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 some one . . . 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, to-morrow," 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 to-morrow'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 every one. 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 every one 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 most 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 slipt
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 Hôtel 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 patronizing 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 apologizing to me he went off to order the _hors
d'oeuvres_.

"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, naïvely taking my part. "You are not hard enough upon it.
It was simply rudeness--unintentional, of course. And how could Simonov
. . . h'm! "

"If a trick like that had been played on me," observed Ferfitchkin, "I
should. . . . "

"But you should have ordered something for yourself," Zverkov
interrupted, "or simply asked for dinner without waiting for us. "

"You will allow that I might have done that without your permission," I
rapped out. "If I waited, it was. . . . "

"Let us sit down, gentlemen," cried Simonov, coming in. "Everything is
ready; I can answer for the champagne; it is capitally frozen. . . . You
see, I did not know your address, where was I to look for you? " he
suddenly turned to me, but again he seemed to avoid looking at me.
Evidently he had something against me. It must have been what happened
yesterday.

All sat down; I did the same. It was a round table. Trudolyubov was on
my left, Simonov on my right. Zverkov was sitting opposite, Ferfitchkin
next to him, between him and Trudolyubov.

"Tell me, are you . . . in a government office? " Zverkov went on attending
to me. Seeing that I was embarrassed he seriously thought that he ought
to be friendly to me, and, so to speak, cheer me up.

"Does he want me to throw a bottle at his head? " I thought, in a fury.
In my novel surroundings I was unnaturally ready to be irritated.

"In the N---- office," I answered jerkily, with my eyes on my plate.

"And ha-ave you a go-od berth? I say, what ma-a-de you leave your
original job? "

"What ma-a-de me was that I wanted to leave my original job," I drawled
more than he, hardly able to control myself. Ferfitchkin went off into a
guffaw. Simonov looked at me ironically. Trudolyubov left off eating and
began looking at me with curiosity.

Zverkov winced, but he tried not to notice it.

"And the remuneration? "

"What remuneration? "

"I mean, your sa-a-lary? "

"Why are you cross-examining me? " However, I told him at once what my
salary was. I turned horribly red.

"It is not very handsome," Zverkov observed majestically.

"Yes, you can't afford to dine at cafés on that," Ferfitchkin added
insolently.

"To my thinking it's very poor," Trudolyubov observed gravely.

"And how thin you have grown! How you have changed! " added Zverkov, with
a shade of venom in his voice, scanning me and my attire with a sort of
insolent compassion.

"Oh, spare his blushes," cried Ferfitchkin, sniggering.

"My dear sir, allow me to tell you I am not blushing," I broke out at
last; "do you hear? I am dining here, at this café, at my own expense,
not at other people's--note that, Mr. Ferfitchkin. "

"Wha-at? Isn't every one here dining at his own expense? You would seem
to be. . . . " Ferfitchkin flew out at me, turning as red as a lobster, and
looking me in the face with fury.

"Tha-at," I answered, feeling I had gone too far, "and I imagine it
would be better to talk of something more intelligent. "

"You intend to show off your intelligence, I suppose? "

"Don't disturb yourself, that would be quite out of place here. "

"Why are you clacking away like that, my good sir, eh? Have you gone out
of your wits in your office? "

"Enough, gentlemen, enough! " Zverkov cried, authoritatively.

"How stupid it is! " muttered Simonov.

"It really is stupid. We have met here, a company of friends, for a
farewell dinner to a comrade and you carry on an altercation," said
Trudolyubov, rudely addressing himself to me alone. "You invited
yourself to join us, so don't disturb the general harmony. "

"Enough, enough! " cried Zverkov. "Give over, gentlemen, it's out of
place. Better let me tell you how I nearly got married the day before
yesterday. . . . "

And then followed a burlesque narrative of how this gentleman had almost
been married two days before. There was not a word about the marriage,
however, but the story was adorned with generals, colonels and
kammer-junkers, while Zverkov almost took the lead among them. It was
greeted with approving laughter; Ferfitchkin positively squealed.

No one paid any attention to me, and I sat crushed and humiliated.

"Good Heavens, these are not the people for me! " I thought. "And what a
fool I have made of myself before them! I let Ferfitchkin go too far,
though. The brutes imagine they are doing me an honour in letting me sit
down with them. They don't understand that it's an honour to them and
not to me! I've grown thinner! My clothes! Oh, damn my trousers! Zverkov
noticed the yellow stain on the knee as soon as he came in. . . . But
what's the use! I must get up at once, this very minute, take my hat and
simply go without a word . . . with contempt!