“Oh, it’s not far really—only a few steps from here,” Simonov repeated, seeing me off to the front door with a bustling air, which did not become him at all. “So tomorrow at five o’clock sharp!” he shouted after me as I was going down the stairs.
He seemed very glad indeed to see me go, but I was mad with rage.
“What possessed me to do it?” I muttered, grinding my teeth, as I walked along the street. “And for such a rotter, such a swine as Zverkov. Of course I mustn’t go. Of course to hell with the lot of them. Why should I? I’m not obliged to, am I? I’ll let Simonov know tomorrow. Drop him a line by post.”
But the reason why I was so furious was because I knew perfectly well that I should go, that I should go deliberately; and that the more tactless, the more indecent my going was, the more certainly would I go.
And there was a good reason why I should not go: I had not got the money. All in all, I had nine roubles, but of that I had to give seven to my servant Apollon tomorrow for his monthly wages, out of which he paid for his board. Not to pay him was quite out of the question, knowing as I did the sort of man Apollon was. But of that fiend, of that scourge of mine, I shall speak another time.
Anyway, I knew very well that I wouldn’t pay him, but would quite certainly go to the dinner.
That night I had the most hideous dreams. And no wonder. The whole evening I was haunted by memories of my hateful days at school, and I could not get rid of them. I was sent to the school by some distant relations of mine, on whom I was dependent and of whom I have not heard anything since. They dumped me there, an orphan already crushed by their reproaches, already accustomed to brood for hours on end, always silent, one who looked sullenly on everything around him. My schoolmates overwhelmed me with spiteful and pitiless derision because I was not like any of them. And derision was the only thing I could not stand. I did not find it at all as easy to make friends with people as they did to make friends among themselves. I at once conceived a bitter hatred for them and withdrew from them all into my own shell of wounded, timid, and excessive pride. Their coarseness appalled me. They laughed cynically at my face, at my ungainly figure. And yet how stupid their own faces were! At our school the faces of the boys seemed to undergo an extraordinary change and grow particularly stupid. Lots of nice looking children entered our school, but after a few years one could not look at them without a feeling of revulsion. Even at the age of sixteen I wondered morosely at them. Even at that time I was amazed at the pettiness of their thoughts, the silliness of their occupations, their games, their conversations. They did not understand even the most necessary things; they were not interested in anything that was out of the ordinary, in anything that was conducive to thought, so that I could not help looking on them as my inferiors. It was not injured vanity that drove me to it, and don’t for goodness sake come to me with your hackneyed and nauseating objections, such as, for instance, that I was only dreaming, while they understood the real meaning of life even then. They understood nothing. They had not the faintest idea of real life. Indeed, it was just that I could not stand most of all about them. On the contrary, they had a most fantastic and absurd notion of the most simple, most ordinary facts, and already at that early age they got into the habit of admiring success alone. Everything that was just but looked down upon and oppressed, they laughed at shamelessly and heartlessly. Rank they mistook for brains. Even at sixteen all they were discussing was cushy jobs. A great deal of it, no doubt, was due to their stupidity, to the bad examples with which they had been surrounded in their childhood and adolescence. And they were abominably vicious. I suppose much of that, too, was only on the surface, much of their depravity was just affected cynicism, and even in their vices one could catch a glimpse of youth and of a certain freshness. But that freshness had nothing attractive about it, and it took the form of a kind of rakishness. I hated them terribly, though I suppose I was really much worse than they. They repaid me in the same coin and did not conceal their loathing of me. But I was no longer anxious for them to like me; on the contrary, I longed continually to humiliate them. To escape their ridicule, I purposely began to apply myself more diligently to my studies and was soon among the top boys in my form. This did make an impression on them. Moreover, they all began gradually to realise that I was already reading books they could not read, and that I understood things (not included in our school curriculum) of which they had not even heard. They looked sullenly and sardonically on all this, but they had to acknowledge my moral superiority, particularly as even the teachers took notice of me on account of it. Their jeering stopped, but their hostility remained, and henceforth our relations became strained and frigid. In the end I could no longer stand it myself: the older I became, the more I longed for the society of men and the more I was in need of friends. I tried to become friends with some of them, but my friendship with them always somehow appeared unnatural and came to an end of itself. I did have a sort of a friend once, but by that time I was already a tyrant at heart: I wanted to exercise complete authority over him, I wanted to implant a contempt for his surroundings in his heart, I demanded that he should break away from these surroundings, scornfully and finally. I frightened him with my passionate friendship. I reduced him to tears, to hysterics. He was a simple and devoted soul, but the moment I felt that he was completely in my power I grew to hate him and drove him from me, as though I only wanted him for the sake of gaining a victory over him, for the sake of exacting his complete submission to me. But I could not get the better of them all. My friend, too, was unlike any of the others; he was, in fact, a rare exception. The first thing I did on leaving school was to give up the career for which I had been trained so as to break all the ties that bound me to my past, which I loathed and abominated.… And I’m damned if I know why after all that I should go trotting off to see that Simonov!…
Early next morning I jumped out of bed in a state of tremendous excitement, as though everything were about to happen there and then. But I really did believe that there was going to be some radical break in my life and that it would most certainly come that day. Whether it was because I was not used to change or for some other reason, but all through my life I could not help feeling that any extraneous event, however trivial, would immediately bring about some radical alteration in my life. However, I went to the office as usual, but slipped away home two hours early to get ready. The important thing, I thought, was not to arrive there first, or they might think that I was really glad to be in their company. But there were thousands of such important things to think of, and they excited me so much that in the end I felt a physical wreck. I gave my boots another polish with my own hands; Apollon would not have cleaned them twice a day for anything in the world, for he considered that a most irregular procedure. I polished them with the brushes I had sneaked from the passage to make sure he did not know anything about it, for I did not want him to despise me for it afterwards. Then I submitted my clothes to a most meticulous inspection and found that everything was old, worn, and covered with stains. I had certainly grown much too careless of my appearance. My Civil Service uniform was not so bad, but I could not go out to dinner in my uniform, could I? The worst of it was that there was a huge yellow stain on the knee of my trousers. I had a presentiment that that stain alone would rob me of nine-tenths of my self-respect. I knew, too, that it was a thought unworthy of me. “But this is no time for thinking: now I have to face reality,” I thought with a sinking heart. I knew, of course, perfectly well at the time that I was monstrously exaggerating all these facts. But what could I do? It was too late for me to control my feelings, and I was shaking with fever. I imagined with despair how patronisingly and how frigidly that “rotter” Zverkov would meet me; with what dull and irresistible contempt that blockhead Trudolyubov would look at me; with what unbearable insolence that insect Ferfichkin would titter at me in order to curry favour with Zverkov; how perfectly Simonov would understand it all and how he would despise me for the baseness of my va
nity and want of spirit, and, above all, how paltry, unliterary, and commonplace the whole affair would be. Of course, the best thing would be not to go at all. But that was most of all out of the question: once I felt drawn into something, I was drawn into it head foremost. All my life I should have jeered at myself afterwards: “So you were afraid, were you? Afraid of life! Afraid!” On the contrary, I longed passionately to show all that “rabble” that I was not such a coward as even I imagined myself to be. And that was not all by any means: in the most powerful paroxysms of my cowardly fever I dreamed of getting the upper hand, of sweeping the floor with them, of forcing them to admire and like me—if only for my “lofty thoughts and indisputable wit.” They would turn their backs on Zverkov, he would be left sitting by himself in some corner, silent and ashamed, utterly crushed by me. Afterwards, no doubt, I would make it up with him and we would drink to our everlasting friendship. But what was most galling and infuriating to me was that even then I knew without a shadow of doubt that, as a matter of fact, I did not want any of this at all, that, as a matter of fact, I had not the least desire to get the better of them, to crush them, to make them like me, and that if I ever were to do so, I should not give a rap for it. Oh, how I prayed for the day to pass quickly! Feeling utterly miserable I walked up again and again to the window, opened the small ventilating pane, and peered out into the murky haze of the thickly falling wet snow.…
At last my cheap clock wheezed out five. I seized my hat and, trying not to look at Apollon, who had been waiting for his wages ever since the morning but was too big a fool to speak to me about it first, slipped past him through the door, and in a smart sledge, which cost me my last fifty copecks, drove up in great style to the Hôtel de Paris.
IV
I had had a feeling the day before that I’d be the first to arrive. But it was no longer a question of arriving first. For not only were they not there, but I could hardly find the room. Nor was the table laid. What did it mean? After many inquiries I found out at last from the waiters that the dinner had been ordered for six and not for five o’clock. I had that confirmed at the bar, too. I even began feeling ashamed to go on making those inquiries. It was only twenty-five minutes past five. If they had changed the dinner hour, they should at least have let me know—what was the post for?—and not have exposed me to such “humiliation” in my own eyes and—and certainly not in the eyes of the waiters. I sat down. A waiter began laying the table. I felt even more humiliated in his presence. Towards six o’clock they brought in candles in addition to the burning lamps. The waiter, however, had never thought of bringing them in as soon as I arrived. In the next room two gloomy gentlemen were having dinner at separate tables; they looked angry and were silent. People in one of the other rooms were kicking up a terrible shindy, shouting at the top of their voices; I could hear the loud laughter of a whole crowd of people, interspersed with some disgustingly shrill shrieks in French: there were ladies at the dinner. The whole thing, in short, could not have been more nauseating. I don’t remember ever having had such a bad time, so that when, punctually at six, they arrived all together, I was at first very glad to see them, as though they were my deliverers, and I almost forgot that I ought to be looking offended.
Zverkov entered the room ahead of everybody, quite obviously the leading spirit of the whole company. He and his companions were laughing. But as soon as he caught sight of me, he pulled himself up and, walking up to me unhurriedly, bent his body slightly from the waist, as though showing off what a fine gentleman he was. He shook hands with me affably, though not too affably, with a sort of watchful politeness, almost as though he were already a general, and as though in giving me his hand he was protecting himself against something. I had imagined that as soon as he came in he would, on the contrary, break into his customary high-pitched laugh, intermingled with shrill shrieks, and at once start making his insipid jokes and witticisms. It was to deal with this that I had been preparing myself since last evening, but I had never expected such condescending affability, such grand manners of a person of the highest rank. So he already considered himself infinitely superior to me in every respect, did he? If he only meant to insult me with the superior airs of a general, it would not matter, I thought to myself; but what if, without the least desire to offend me, the fool had really got the preposterous idea into his head that he was immeasurably superior to me and could not look at me but with a patronising air? The very thought of it made me choke with resentment.
“I was surprised to hear of your desire to join us,” he began, mouthing and lisping, which he never used to do before. “I’m afraid we haven’t seen much of each other recently. You seem to avoid us. A pity. We’re not so terrible as you think. Anyway, I’m glad to—er—re-e-sume—er—” and he turned away casually to put down his hat on the windowsill.
“Been waiting long?” asked Trudolyubov.
“I arrived at precisely five o’clock as I was told to yesterday,” I replied in a loud voice and with an irritation that threatened an early explosion.
“Didn’t you let him know that we had changed the hour?” Trudolyubov asked, turning to Simonov.
“I’m afraid I didn’t—forgot all about it,” Simonov replied unrepentantly and, without a word of apology to me, went off to order the hors d’œuvres.
“You poor fellow, so you’ve been waiting here for a whole hour, have you?” Zverkov exclaimed sarcastically, for, according to his notions, this was really very funny.
That awful cad Ferfichkin broke into a nasty, shrill chuckle, like the yapping of a little dog. My position seemed to him too ludicrous and too embarrassing for words.
“It isn’t funny at all!” I cried to Ferfichkin, getting more and more irritated. “It was somebody else’s fault, not mine. I expect I wasn’t considered important enough to be told. This—this—this is simply idiotic!”
“Not only idiotic, but something else as well,” Trudolyubov muttered, naïvely taking my part. “You’re much too nice about it. It’s simply insulting. Unintentional, no doubt. And how could Simonov—well!”
“If anyone had played that kind of joke on me,” observed Ferfichkin, “I’d—”
“You’d have ordered something for yourself,” Zverkov interrupted him, “or simply asked for dinner without waiting for us.”
“But you must admit I could have done as much without your permission,” I rapped out. “If I waited, I—”
“Let’s take our seats, gentlemen,” Simonov cried, coming in. “Everything’s ready. I can answer for the champagne—it’s been excellently iced.… I’m sorry,” he suddenly turned to me, but again somehow avoiding looking at me, “but I didn’t know your address, and so I couldn’t possibly have got hold of you, could I?”
He must have had something against me. Must have changed his mind after my visit last night.
All sat down; so did I. The table was a round one. Trudolyubov was on my left and Simonov on my right. Zverkov was sitting opposite with Ferfichkin next to him, between him and Trudolyubov.
“Tell me plea-ea-se are you—er—in a Government department?” Zverkov continued to be very attentive to me.
He saw how embarrassed I was and he seriously imagined that it was his duty to be nice to me and, as it were, cheer me up.
“Does he want me to throw a bottle at his head?” I thought furiously. As I was unaccustomed to these surroundings, I was getting irritated somehow unnaturally quickly.
“In the … office,” I replied abruptly, my eyes fixed on my plate.
“Good Lord, and do-o-o you find it re-mu-nerative? Tell me, plea-ea-se, what indu-u-uced you to give up your old job?”
“What indu-u-uced me was simply that I got fed up with my old job,” I answered, drawing out the words three times as much as he and scarcely able to control myself.
Ferfichkin snorted. Simonov glanced ironically at me. Trudolyubov stopped eating and began observing me curiously.
Zverkov winced, but pretended not to have notice
d anything.
“We-e-e-ell, and what’s your screw?”
“Which screw?”
“I mean, what’s your sa-a-alary?”
“You’re not by any chance cross-examining me, are you?”
However, I told him at once what my salary was. I was blushing terribly.
“Not much,” Zverkov observed importantly.
“No,” Ferfichkin added insolently, “hardly enough to pay for your dinners at a restaurant.”
“I think it’s simply beggarly,” Trudolyubov said, seriously.
“And how thin you’ve grown, how you’ve changed since—er—those days,” added Zverkov, no longer without venom, examining my clothes with a sort of impudent compassion.
“Stop embarrassing the poor fellow,” Ferfichkin exclaimed, giggling.
“You’re quite mistaken, sir,” I burst out at last, “I’m not at all embarrassed. Do you hear? I’m dining here at this restaurant, sir, at my own expense, and not at other people’s. Make a note of that, Mr. Ferfichkin.”
“What do you mean?” Ferfichkin flew at me, turning red as a lobster and glaring furiously at me. “And who, sir, isn’t dining at his own expense here? You seem to—”
“I mean what I said,” I replied, feeling that I had gone too far, “and I think we’d better talk of something more intelligent.”
“You’re not by any chance anxious to show off your intelligence, are you?”
“I shouldn’t worry about that, if I were you. It would be entirely out of place here.”
“What are you talking about, my dear sir? You haven’t gone out of your mind at that lepartment of yours, have you?”
“Enough, enough, gentlemen!” Zverkov cried in a commanding voice.
“How damn silly!” Simonov muttered.
“It is damn silly,” Trudolyubov said, addressing himself rudely to me alone. “Here we are, a few good friends, met to wish god-speed to a comrade, and you’re trying to settle old scores! It was you who invited yourself to join us yesterday, so why are you now upsetting the friendly atmosphere of this dinner?”
The Best Short Stories of Fyodor Dostoevsky (Modern Library Classics) Page 20
