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 friendswith no one and positively avoided talking, and buried myself more andmore in my hole. At work in the office I never looked at anyone, andwas perfectly well aware that my companions looked upon me, not only asa queer fellow, but even looked upon me--I always fancied this--with asort of loathing. I sometimes wondered why it was that nobody exceptme fancied that he was looked upon with aversion? One of the clerkshad a most repulsive, pock-marked face, which looked positivelyvillainous. I believe I should not have dared to look at anyone withsuch an unsightly countenance. Another had such a very dirty olduniform that there was an unpleasant odour in his proximity. Yet notone of these gentlemen showed the slightest self-consciousness--eitherabout 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 minded--so long as theirsuperiors did not look at them in that way. It is clear to me nowthat, owing to my unbounded vanity and to the high standard I set formyself, I often looked at myself with furious discontent, which vergedon loathing, and so I inwardly attributed the same feeling to everyone.I hated my face, for instance: I thought it disgusting, and evensuspected that there was something base in my expression, and so everyday when I turned up at the office I tried to behave as independentlyas possible, and to assume a lofty expression, so that I might not besuspected of being abject. "My face may be ugly," I thought, "but letit be lofty, expressive, and, above all, EXTREMELY intelligent." But Iwas positively and painfully certain that it was impossible for mycountenance ever to express those qualities. And what was worst ofall, I thought it actually stupid looking, and I would have been quitesatisfied if I could have looked intelligent. In fact, I would evenhave put up with looking base if, at the same time, my face could havebeen thought strikingly intelligent.
Of course, I hated my fellow clerks one and all, and I despised themall, 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 despisingthem and thinking them superior to myself. A cultivated and decent mancannot 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 eyesalmost every time I met anyone. I even made experiments whether Icould face so and so's looking at me, and I was always the first todrop my eyes. This worried me to distraction. I had a sickly dread,too, of being ridiculous, and so had a slavish passion for theconventional in everything external. I loved to fall into the commonrut, and had a whole-hearted terror of any kind of eccentricity inmyself. But how could I live up to it? I was morbidly sensitive as aman of our age should be. They were all stupid, and as like oneanother as so many sheep. Perhaps I was the only one in the office whofancied that I was a coward and a slave, and I fancied it just becauseI was more highly developed. But it was not only that I fancied it, itreally was so. I was a coward and a slave. I say this without theslightest embarrassment. Every decent man of our age must be a cowardand a slave. That is his normal condition. Of that I am firmlypersuaded. He is made and constructed to that very end. And not onlyat the present time owing to some casual circumstances, but always, atall times, a decent man is bound to be a coward and a slave. It is thelaw of nature for all decent people all over the earth. If anyone ofthem happens to be valiant about something, he need not be comfortednor carried away by that; he would show the white feather just the samebefore something else. That is how it invariably and inevitably ends.Only donkeys and mules are valiant, and they only till they are pushedup to the wall. It is not worth while to pay attention to them forthey really are of no consequence.
Another circumstance, too, worried me in those days: that there was noone like me and I was unlike anyone else. "I am alone and they areEVERYONE," I thought--and pondered.
From that it is evident that I was still a youngster.
The very opposite sometimes happened. It was loathsome sometimes to goto the office; things reached such a point that I often came home ill.But all at once, A PROPOS of nothing, there would come a phase ofscepticism and indifference (everything happened in phases to me), andI would laugh myself at my intolerance and fastidiousness, I wouldreproach myself with being ROMANTIC. At one time I was unwilling tospeak to anyone, while at other times I would not only talk, but go tothe length of contemplating making friends with them. All myfastidiousness would suddenly, for no rhyme or reason, vanish. Whoknows, perhaps I never had really had it, and it had simply beenaffected, and got out of books. I have not decided that question evennow. Once I quite made friends with them, visited their homes, playedpreference, drank vodka, talked of promotions.... But here let memake a digression.
We Russians, speaking generally, have never had those foolishtranscendental "romantics"--German, and still more French--on whomnothing produces any effect; if there were an earthquake, if all Franceperished at the barricades, they would still be the same, they wouldnot even have the decency to affect a change, but would still go onsinging their transcendental songs to the hour of their death, becausethey are fools. We, in Russia, have no fools; that is well known.That is what distinguishes us from foreign lands. Consequently thesetranscendental natures are not found amongst us in their pure form.The idea that they are is due to our "realistic" journalists andcritics of that day, always on the look out for Kostanzhoglos and UnclePyotr Ivanitchs and foolishly accepting them as our ideal; they haveslandered our romantics, taking them for the same transcendental sortas in Germany or France. On the contrary, the characteristics of our"romantics" are absolutely and directly opposed to the transcendentalEuropean type, and no European standard can be applied to them. (Allowme to make use of this word "romantic"--an old-fashioned and muchrespected word which has done good service and is familiar to all.)The characteristics of our romantic are to understand everything, TOSEE EVERYTHING AND TO SEE IT OFTEN INCOMPARABLY MORE CLEARLY THAN OURMOST REALISTIC MINDS SEE IT; to refuse to accept anyone or anything,but at the same time not to despise anything; to give way, to yield,from policy; never to lose sight of a useful practical object (such asrent-free quarters at the government expense, pensions, decorations),to keep their eye on that object through all the enthusiasms andvolumes of lyrical poems, and at the same time to preserve "the sublimeand the beautiful" inviolate within them to the hour of their death,and to preserve themselves also, incidentally, like some precious jewelwrapped in cotton wool if only for the benefit of "the sublime and thebeautiful." Our "romantic" is a man of great breadth and the greatestrogue of all our rogues, I assure you.... I can assure you fromexperience, indeed. Of course, that is, if he is intelligent. Butwhat am I saying! The romantic is always intelligent, and I only meantto observe that although we have had foolish romantics they don'tcount, and they were only so because in the flower of their youth theydegenerated into Germans, and to preserve their precious jewel morecomfortably, settled somewhere out there--by preference in Weimar orthe Black Forest.
I, for instance, genuinely despised my official work and did not openlyabuse it simply because I was in it myself and got a salary for it.Anyway, take note, I did not openly abuse it. Our romantic wouldrather go out of his mind--a thing, however, which very rarelyhappens--than take to open abuse, unless he had some other career inview; and he is never kicked out. At most, they would take him to thelunatic asylum as "the King of Spain" if he should go very mad. But itis only the thin, fair people who go out of their minds in Russia.Innumerable "romantics" attain later in life to considerable rank inthe service. Their many-sidedness is remarkable! And what a facultythey have for the most contradictory sensations! I was comforted bythis thought even in those days, and I am of the same opinion now.That is why there are so many "broad natures" among
us who never losetheir ideal even in the depths of degradation; and though they neverstir a finger for their ideal, though they are arrant thieves andknaves, yet they tearfully cherish their first ideal and areextraordinarily honest at heart. Yes, it is only among us that themost incorrigible rogue can be absolutely and loftily honest at heartwithout in the least ceasing to be a rogue. I repeat, our romantics,frequently, become such accomplished rascals (I use the term "rascals"affectionately), suddenly display such a sense of reality and practicalknowledge that their bewildered superiors and the public generally canonly ejaculate in amazement.
Their many-sidedness is really amazing, and goodness knows what it maydevelop into later on, and what the future has in store for us. It isnot a poor material! I do not say this from any foolish or boastfulpatriotism. But I feel sure that you are again imagining that I amjoking. Or perhaps it's just the contrary and you are convinced that Ireally think so. Anyway, gentlemen, I shall welcome both views as anhonour and a special favour. And do forgive my digression.
I did not, of course, maintain friendly relations with my comrades andsoon was at loggerheads with them, and in my youth and inexperience Ieven gave up bowing to them, as though I had cut off all relations.That, however, only happened to me once. As a rule, I was always alone.
In the first place I spent most of my time at home, reading. I triedto stifle all that was continually seething within me by means ofexternal impressions. And the only external means I had was reading.Reading, of course, was a great help--exciting me, giving me pleasureand pain. But at times it bored me fearfully. One longed for movementin spite of everything, and I plunged all at once into dark,underground, loathsome vice of the pettiest kind. My wretched passionswere acute, smarting, from my continual, sickly irritability I hadhysterical impulses, with tears and convulsions. I had no resourceexcept reading, that is, there was nothing in my surroundings which Icould respect and which attracted me. I was overwhelmed withdepression, too; I had an hysterical craving for incongruity and forcontrast, and so I took to vice. I have not said all this to justifymyself.... But, no! I am lying. I did want to justify myself. Imake that little observation for my own benefit, gentlemen. I don'twant to lie. I vowed to myself I would not.
And so, furtively, timidly, in solitude, at night, I indulged in filthyvice, with a feeling of shame which never deserted me, even at the mostloathsome moments, and which at such moments nearly made me curse.Already even then I had my underground world in my soul. I wasfearfully afraid of being seen, of being met, of being recognised. Ivisited various obscure haunts.
One night as I was passing a tavern I saw through a lighted window somegentlemen fighting with billiard cues, and saw one of them thrown outof the window. At other times I should have felt very much disgusted,but I was in such a mood at the time, that I actually envied thegentleman thrown out of the window--and I envied him so much that Ieven went into the tavern and into the billiard-room. "Perhaps," Ithought, "I'll have a fight, too, and they'll throw me out of thewindow."
I was not drunk--but what is one to do--depression will drive a man tosuch a pitch of hysteria? But nothing happened. It seemed that I wasnot even equal to being thrown out of the window and I went awaywithout having my fight.
An officer put me in my place from the first moment.
I was standing by the billiard-table and in my ignorance blocking upthe way, and he wanted to pass; he took me by the shoulders and withouta word--without a warning or explanation--moved me from where I wasstanding to another spot and passed by as though he had not noticed me.I could have forgiven blows, but I could not forgive his having movedme without noticing me.
Devil knows what I would have given for a real regular quarrel--a moredecent, a more LITERARY one, so to speak. I had been treated like afly. This officer was over six foot, while I was a spindly littlefellow. But the quarrel was in my hands. I had only to protest and Icertainly would have been thrown out of the window. But I changed mymind and preferred to beat a resentful retreat.
I went out of the tavern straight home, confused and troubled, and thenext night I went out again with the same lewd intentions, still morefurtively, abjectly and miserably than before, as it were, with tearsin my eyes--but still I did go out again. Don't imagine, though, itwas cowardice made me slink away from the officer; I never have been acoward at heart, though I have always been a coward in action. Don'tbe in a hurry to laugh--I assure you I can explain it all.
Oh, if only that officer had been one of the sort who would consent tofight a duel! But no, he was one of those gentlemen (alas, longextinct!) who preferred fighting with cues or, like Gogol's LieutenantPirogov, appealing to the police. They did not fight duels and wouldhave thought a duel with a civilian like me an utterly unseemlyprocedure in any case--and they looked upon the duel altogether assomething impossible, something free-thinking and French. But theywere quite ready to bully, especially when they were over six foot.
I did not slink away through cowardice, but through an unboundedvanity. I was afraid not of his six foot, not of getting a soundthrashing and being thrown out of the window; I should have hadphysical courage enough, I assure you; but I had not the moral courage.What I was afraid of was that everyone present, from the insolentmarker down to the lowest little stinking, pimply clerk in a greasycollar, would jeer at me and fail to understand when I began to protestand to address them in literary language. For of the point ofhonour--not of honour, but of the point of honour (POINTD'HONNEUR)--one cannot speak among us except in literary language. Youcan't allude to the "point of honour" in ordinary language. I was fullyconvinced (the sense of reality, in spite of all my romanticism!) thatthey would all simply split their sides with laughter, and that theofficer would not simply beat me, that is, without insulting me, butwould certainly prod me in the back with his knee, kick me round thebilliard-table, and only then perhaps have pity and drop me out of thewindow.
Of course, this trivial incident could not with me end in that. Ioften met that officer afterwards in the street and noticed him verycarefully. I am not quite sure whether he recognised me, I imaginenot; I judge from certain signs. But I--I stared at him with spite andhatred and so it went on ... for several years! My resentment greweven deeper with years. At first I began making stealthy inquiriesabout this officer. It was difficult for me to do so, for I knew noone. But one day I heard someone shout his surname in the street as Iwas following him at a distance, as though I were tied to him--and so Ilearnt his surname. Another time I followed him to his flat, and forten kopecks learned from the porter where he lived, on which storey,whether he lived alone or with others, and so on--in fact, everythingone could learn from a porter. One morning, though I had never triedmy hand with the pen, it suddenly occurred to me to write a satire onthis officer in the form of a novel which would unmask his villainy. Iwrote the novel with relish. I did unmask his villainy, I evenexaggerated it; at first I so altered his surname that it could easilybe recognised, but on second thoughts I changed it, and sent the storyto the OTETCHESTVENNIYA ZAPISKI. But at that time such attacks werenot the fashion and my story was not printed. That was a greatvexation to me.
Sometimes I was positively choked with resentment. At last Idetermined to challenge my enemy to a duel. I composed a splendid,charming letter to him, imploring him to apologise to me, and hintingrather plainly at a duel in case of refusal. The letter was socomposed that if the officer had had the least understanding of thesublime and the beautiful he would certainly have flung himself on myneck and have offered me his friendship. And how fine that would havebeen! How we should have got on together! "He could have shielded mewith his higher rank, while I could have improved his mind with myculture, and, well ... my ideas, and all sorts of things might havehappened." Only fancy, this was two years after his insult to me, andmy challenge would have been a ridiculous anachronism, in spite of allthe ingenuity of my letter in disguising and explaining away theanachronism. But, thank God (to this
day I thank the Almighty withtears in my eyes) I did not send the letter to him. Cold shivers rundown my back when I think of what might have happened if I had sent it.
And all at once I revenged myself in the simplest way, by a stroke ofgenius! A brilliant thought suddenly dawned upon me. Sometimes onholidays I used to stroll along the sunny side of the Nevsky about fouro'clock in the afternoon. Though it was hardly a stroll so much as aseries of innumerable miseries, humiliations and resentments; but nodoubt that was just what I wanted. I used to wriggle along in a mostunseemly fashion, like an eel, continually moving aside to make way forgenerals, for officers of the guards and the hussars, or for ladies.At such minutes there used to be a convulsive twinge at my heart, and Iused to feel hot all down my back at the mere thought of thewretchedness of my attire, of the wretchedness and abjectness of mylittle scurrying figure. This was a regular martyrdom, a continual,intolerable humiliation at the thought, which passed into an incessantand direct sensation, that I was a mere fly in the eyes of all thisworld, a nasty, disgusting fly--more intelligent, more highlydeveloped, more refined in feeling than any of them, of course--but afly that was continually making way for everyone, insulted and injuredby everyone. Why I inflicted this torture upon myself, why I went tothe Nevsky, I don't know. I felt simply drawn there at every possibleopportunity.
Already then I began to experience a rush of the enjoyment of which Ispoke in the first chapter. After my affair with the officer I felteven more drawn there than before: it was on the Nevsky that I met himmost frequently, there I could admire him. He, too, went there chieflyon holidays, He, too, turned out of his path for generals and personsof high rank, and he too, wriggled between them like an eel; butpeople, like me, or even better dressed than me, he simply walked over;he made straight for them as though there was nothing but empty spacebefore him, and never, under any circumstances, turned aside. Igloated over my resentment watching him and ... always resentfully madeway for him. It exasperated me that even in the street I could not beon an even footing with him.
"Why must you invariably be the first to move aside?" I kept askingmyself in hysterical rage, waking up sometimes at three o'clock in themorning. "Why is it you and not he? There's no regulation about it;there's no written law. Let the making way be equal as it usually iswhen refined people meet; he moves half-way and you move half-way; youpass with mutual respect."
But that never happened, and I always moved aside, while he did noteven notice my making way for him. And lo and behold a bright ideadawned upon me! "What," I thought, "if I meet him and don't move onone side? What if I don't move aside on purpose, even if I knock upagainst him? How would that be?" This audacious idea took such a holdon me that it gave me no peace. I was dreaming of it continually,horribly, and I purposely went more frequently to the Nevsky in orderto picture more vividly how I should do it when I did do it. I wasdelighted. This intention seemed to me more and more practical andpossible.
"Of course I shall not really push him," I thought, already moregood-natured in my joy. "I will simply not turn aside, will run upagainst him, not very violently, but just shouldering each other--justas much as decency permits. I will push against him just as much as hepushes against me." At last I made up my mind completely. But mypreparations took a great deal of time. To begin with, when I carriedout my plan I should need to be looking rather more decent, and so Ihad to think of my get-up. "In case of emergency, if, for instance,there were any sort of public scandal (and the public there is of themost RECHERCHE: the Countess walks there; Prince D. walks there; allthe literary world is there), I must be well dressed; that inspiresrespect and of itself puts us on an equal footing in the eyes of thesociety."
With this object I asked for some of my salary in advance, and boughtat Tchurkin's a pair of black gloves and a decent hat. Black glovesseemed to me both more dignified and BON TON than the lemon-colouredones which I had contemplated at first. "The colour is too gaudy, itlooks as though one were trying to be conspicuous," and I did not takethe lemon-coloured ones. I had got ready long beforehand a good shirt,with white bone studs; my overcoat was the only thing that held meback. The coat in itself was a very good one, it kept me warm; but itwas wadded and it had a raccoon collar which was the height ofvulgarity. I had to change the collar at any sacrifice, and to have abeaver one like an officer's. For this purpose I began visiting theGostiny Dvor and after several attempts I pitched upon a piece of cheapGerman beaver. Though these German beavers soon grow shabby and lookwretched, yet at first they look exceedingly well, and I only needed itfor 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 borrowfrom Anton Antonitch Syetotchkin, my immediate superior, an unassumingperson, though grave and judicious. He never lent money to anyone, butI had, on entering the service, been specially recommended to him by animportant personage who had got me my berth. I was horribly worried.To borrow from Anton Antonitch seemed to me monstrous and shameful. Idid not sleep for two or three nights. Indeed, I did not sleep well atthat time, I was in a fever; I had a vague sinking at my heart or elsea sudden throbbing, throbbing, throbbing! Anton Antonitch wassurprised at first, then he frowned, then he reflected, and did afterall lend me the money, receiving from me a written authorisation totake from my salary a fortnight later the sum that he had lent me.
In this way everything was at last ready. The handsome beaver replacedthe mean-looking raccoon, and I began by degrees to get to work. Itwould never have done to act offhand, at random; the plan had to becarried out skilfully, by degrees. But I must confess that after manyefforts I began to despair: we simply could not run into each other. Imade every preparation, I was quite determined--it seemed as though weshould run into one another directly--and before I knew what I wasdoing I had stepped aside for him again and he had passed withoutnoticing me. I even prayed as I approached him that God would grant medetermination. One time I had made up my mind thoroughly, but it endedin my stumbling and falling at his feet because at the very lastinstant when I was six inches from him my courage failed me. He verycalmly stepped over me, while I flew on one side like a ball. Thatnight I was ill again, feverish and delirious.
And suddenly it ended most happily. The night before I had made up mymind not to carry out my fatal plan and to abandon it all, and withthat object I went to the Nevsky for the last time, just to see how Iwould abandon it all. Suddenly, three paces from my enemy, Iunexpectedly 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 andpassed him on a perfectly equal footing! He did not even look roundand pretended not to notice it; but he was only pretending, I amconvinced of that. I am convinced of that to this day! Of course, Igot the worst of it--he was stronger, but that was not the point. Thepoint was that I had attained my object, I had kept up my dignity, Ihad not yielded a step, and had put myself publicly on an equal socialfooting with him. I returned home feeling that I was fully avenged foreverything. I was delighted. I was triumphant and sang Italian arias.Of course, I will not describe to you what happened to me three dayslater; if you have read my first chapter you can guess for yourself.The officer was afterwards transferred; I have not seen him now forfourteen years. What is the dear fellow doing now? Whom is he walkingover?
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