“Enough, enough!” Zverkov cried again. “Drop it, gentlemen. This is hardly the time or place for a brawl. Let me rather tell you how I nearly got married the other day!”
And off he went to tell some scandalous story of how he had nearly got married a few days before. There was, by the way, not a word about the marriage. The story was all about generals, colonels, and even court chamberlains, and Zverkov, of course, played the most important part among them. It was followed by a burst of appreciative laughter, Ferfichkin’s high-pitched laugh breaking into loud shrieks.
None of them paid any attention to me, and I sat there feeling crushed and humiliated.
“Good heavens, is this the sort of company for me?” I thought. “And what an ass I’ve made of myself in front of them! I let Ferfichkin go too far, though. The idiots think they do me an honour by letting me sit down at the same table with them. They don’t seem to realise that it is I who am doing them an honour, and not they me. ‘You look so thin! Your clothes!’ Damn my trousers! I’m sure Zverkov noticed the stain on the knee the moment he came in.… But what the hell am I doing here? I’d better get up at once, this minute, take my hat, and simply go without a word.… Show them how much I despise them! Don’t care a damn if I have to fight a duel tomorrow. The dirty rotters! Do they really think I care about the seven roubles? They might, though.… To hell with it! I don’t care a damn about the seven roubles! I’ll go this minute!”
But, of course, I stayed.
In my despair I drank glass after glass of sherry and Château Lafitte. As I was unused to drink, I got drunk very quickly, and the more drunk I got the hotter did my resentment grow. I suddenly felt like insulting them in the most insolent way and then going. Waiting for the right moment, then showing them the kind of man I was, and in that way forcing them to admit that, though I might be absurd, I was clever and—and—oh, to hell with them!
I looked impudently at them with leaden eyes. But they seemed to have entirely forgotten me. They were noisy, clamorous, happy. Zverkov was talking all the time. I started listening. He was talking about some ravishingly beautiful woman whom he had brought to the point of declaring her love to him at last (he was of course lying like a trooper), and how an intimate friend of his, a prince of sorts, a hussar by the name of Kolya, who owned three thousand peasants, was particularly helpful to him in this affair.
“And yet this friend of yours, the chap with the three thousand peasants, isn’t here, is he? To see you off, I mean,” I broke into the conversation.
For a minute there was dead silence.
“I believe you’re quite tight now.” Trudolyubov at last condescended to notice me, throwing a disdainful glance in my direction.
Zverkov stared at me in silence, examining me as though I were an insect. Simonov quickly began pouring out the champagne.
Trudolyubov raised his glass, all the others except myself following his example.
“To your health and a pleasant journey!” he cried to Zverkov. “To our past, gentlemen, and to our future! Hurrah!”
They drained their glasses and rushed to embrace Zverkov. I did not stir; my full glass stood untouched before me.
“Aren’t you going to drink?” roared Trudolyubov, losing patience and addressing me menacingly.
“I want to make a speech too—er—a special speech and—and then I’ll drink, Mr. Trudolyubov.”
“Unmannerly brute!” muttered Simonov.
I drew myself up in my chair and took up my glass feverishly, preparing myself for something extraordinary, though I hardly knew myself what I was going to say.
“Silence!” cried Ferfichkin. “Now we’re going to hear something really clever!”
Zverkov waited gravely, realising what was in the wind.
“Lieutenant Zverkov,” I began, “I’d like you to know that I hate empty phrases, phrasemongers, and tight waists.… That is the first point I should like to make. The second will follow presently.”
They all stirred uneasily.
“My second point: I hate smutty stories and the fellows who tell them. Especially the fellows who tell them. My third point: I love truth, frankness, and honesty,” I went on almost mechanically, for I was beginning to freeze with terror myself, quite at a loss how I came to talk like this. “I love thought, Mr. Zverkov. I love true comradeship where all are equal, and not—er—yes. I love—but what the hell! Why not? I’ll drink to your health too, Mr. Zverkov. Seduce the Caucasian maidens, shoot the enemies of our country and—and—to your health, Mr. Zverkov!”
Zverkov got up from his seat, bowed, and said, “Very much obliged to you, I’m sure.”
He was terribly offended and even turned pale.
“Damn it all!” Trudolyubov roared, striking the table with his fist.
“Why, sir,” Ferfichkin squealed, “people get a punch on the nose for that!”
“Let’s kick him out!” muttered Simonov.
“Not another word, gentlemen, please!” Zverkov cried solemnly, putting a stop to the general indignation. “I thank you all, but leave it to me to show him how much value I attach to his words.”
“Mr. Ferfichkin,” I said in a loud voice, addressing myself importantly to Ferfichkin, “I expect you to give me full satisfaction tomorrow for your words just now!”
“You mean a duel, do you? With pleasure, sir!” Ferfichkin replied, but I must have looked so ridiculous as I challenged him, and the whole thing, in fact, must have looked so incongruous in view of my small stature, that everyone, including Ferfichkin, roared with laughter.
“Oh, leave him alone for goodness’ sake,” Trudolyubov said with disgust. “The fellow’s tight!”
“I shall never forgive myself for having put his name down,” Simonov muttered again.
“Now is the time to throw a bottle at them,” I thought, picked up the bottle and—poured myself out another glass.
“… No, I’d better see it through to the end!” I went on thinking to myself. “You’d be pleased if I went away, gentlemen, wouldn’t you? But I shan’t go. Oh, no. Not for anything in the world. I’ll go on sitting here on purpose—and drinking—to the end just to show you that I don’t care a damn for you. I’ll go on sitting and drinking because this is nothing but a low-class pub and, besides, I paid for everything. I’ll sit and drink because I think you’re a lot of nobodies, a lot of miserable, paltry nobodies. I’ll sit and drink and—and sing, if I like. Yes, sing! For, damn it, I’ve a right to sing—er—yes.”
But I did not sing. I just did my best not to look at them, assumed most independent attitudes, and waited patiently for them to speak to me first. But, alas, they did not speak to me. And how I longed—oh, how I longed at that moment to be reconciled to them! It struck eight, then at last nine. They moved from the table to the sofa. Zverkov made himself comfortable on the sofa, placing one foot on a little round table. They took the wine with them. Zverkov did actually stand them three bottles of champagne. He did not of course invite me to join them. They all sat round him on the sofa, listening to him almost with reverence. It was clear that they were fond of him. “But why? Why?” I asked myself. From time to time they were overcome with drunken enthusiasm and kissed each other. They talked about the Caucasus, about the nature of real passion, about cards, about cushy jobs in the service; about the income of the hussar Podkharzhevsky, whom none of them knew personally, and they were glad he had such a large income; about the marvellous grace and beauty of princess D., whom none of them had ever seen, either; and at last they finished up with the statement that Shakespeare was immortal.
I was smiling contemptuously, walking up and down at the other end of the room, directly opposite the sofa, along the wall, from the table to the stove, and back again. I did my best to show them that I could do without them, at the same time deliberately stamping on the floor, raising myself up and down on my heels. But it was all in vain. They paid no attention to me. I had the patience to pace the room like that right in front of them fr
om eight till eleven o’clock, always in the same place, from the table to the stove, and back again. “Here I am, walking up and down, just as I please, and no one can stop me!” The waiter, who kept coming into the room, stopped and looked at me a few times. I was beginning to feel giddy from turning round so frequently, and there were moments when I thought I was delirious. Three times during those three hours I got wet through with perspiration and three times I got dry again. At times the thought would flash through my mind and stab my heart with fierce, intense pain that ten, twenty, forty years would pass and I would still remember after forty years with humiliation and disgust those beastly, ridiculous, and horrible moments of my life. It was quite impossible for anyone to abase himself more disgracefully and do it more willingly, and I realised it fully—fully—and yet I went on pacing the room from the table to the stove, and from the stove to the table. “Oh, if only you knew the thoughts and feelings I’m capable of and how intelligent I am!” I thought again and again, addressing myself mentally to the sofa on which my enemies were sitting. But my enemies behaved as though I were not in the room at all. Once, only once, they turned to me, just when Zverkov began talking about Shakespeare and I burst out laughing contemptuously. I guffawed in so affected and disgusting a manner that they at once interrupted their conversation and watched me silently for a couple of minutes, with a grave air and without laughing, walking up and down along the wall from the table to the stove, taking no notice of them. But nothing came of it: they said nothing to me, and two minutes later stopped taking any notice of me again. It struck eleven.
“Gentlemen,” Zverkov cried, getting up from the sofa, “now let’s all go there!”
“Of course, of course,” the others said.
I turned abruptly to Zverkov. I was so exhausted, so dead beat, that I would have gladly cut my own throat to put an end to my misery. I was feverish. My hair, wet with perspiration, stuck to my forehead and temples.
“Zverkov,” I said sharply and determinedly, “I’m sorry. Ferfichkin and all of you, all of you, I hope you’ll forgive me—I’ve offended you all!”
“Aha! Got frightened of the duel, have you?” Ferfichkin hissed venomously.
I felt as though he had stabbed me to the heart.
“No, Ferfichkin, I’m not afraid of the duel. I’m ready to fight you tomorrow, if you like, but only after we’ve made it up. Yes, I even insist on it, and you can’t possibly refuse me. I want to show you that I’m not afraid of a duel. You can fire first, and I’ll fire in the air!”
“Pleased with himself, isn’t he?” Simonov remarked.
“Talking through his hat, if you ask me,” Trudolyubov declared.
“Get out of my way, will you?” Zverkov said contemptuously. “What are you standing in my way for? What do you want?”
They were all red in the face; their eyes were shining; they had been drinking heavily.
“I ask you for your friendship, Zverkov. I offended you, but—”
“Offended me? You offended me? Don’t you realise, sir, that you couldn’t possibly offend me under any circumstances?”
“We’ve had enough of you,” Trudolyubov summed up the position. “Get out! Come on, let’s go!”
“Olympia’s mine, gentlemen! Agreed?” Zverkov exclaimed.
“Agreed! Agreed!” they answered him, laughing.
I stood there utterly humiliated. The whole party left the room noisily. Trudolyubov began singing some stupid song. Simonov stayed behind for a second to tip the waiters. I suddenly went up to him.
“Simonov,” I said firmly and desperately, “let me have six roubles!”
He gazed at me in utter amazement, with a sort of stupefied look in his eyes. He, too, was drunk.
“But you’re not coming there with us, are you?”
“Yes, I am!”
“I haven’t any money!” he snapped out with a contemptuous grin, and left the room.
I caught him by the overcoat. It was a nightmare.
“Simonov, I saw you had money. Why do you refuse me? Am I a scoundrel? Be careful how you refuse me: if you knew, if you knew why I’m asking! Everything depends on it, my whole future, all my plans!…”
Simonov took out the money and almost flung it at me.
“Take it if you’re so utterly without shame!” he said, pitilessly, and rushed away to overtake them.
For a moment I remained alone. The general disorder in the room, the remains of the dinner, the broken wineglass on the floor, the cigarette-stubs, the fumes of wine and the delirium in my head, the piercing anguish in my heart, and, finally, the waiter who had seen and heard everything and was now peering curiously into my eyes.
“There!” I cried. “Either they’ll implore me for my friendship on their knees or—or I’ll slap Zverkov’s face!”
V
“So this is it—this is it at last—a head-on clash with real life!” I murmured, racing down the stairs. “This is quite a different proposition from your Pope leaving Rome for Brazil! This isn’t your ball on Lake Como!”
“You’re a swine,” the thought flashed through my mind, “if you laugh at this now!”
“I don’t care,” I cried in answer to myself. “Now everything is lost anyway!”
There was not a trace of them to be seen in the street, but that did not worry me: I knew where they had gone.
At the front steps of the hotel stood a solitary night-sledge with its driver in a rough, peasant coat, thickly covered with wet and, as it were, warm snow which was still falling. It was steamy and close. His little shaggy, piebald horse was also covered thickly with snow and was coughing—I remember it all very well. I rushed to the wooden sledge, raised a leg to get into it, and was suddenly so stunned by the memory of how Simonov had just given me the six roubles that I fell into the sledge like a sack.
“Oh, I shall have to do a lot to get my own back,” I cried. “But I shall do it or perish on the spot tonight. Come on, driver, start!”
We started. My thoughts were in a whirl.
“They won’t go down on their knees to ask me to be their friend. That’s an illusion, a cheap, romantic, fantastic, horrible illusion—just another ball on Lake Como. And that’s why I must slap Zverkov’s face! I simply must do it. Well, that’s settled then. I’m flying now to slap his face! Hurry up, driver!”
The driver tugged at the reins.
“As soon as I go in I’ll slap his face. Ought I perhaps to say a few words before slapping his face by way of introduction? No. I’ll just go in and slap his face. They’ll be all sitting in the large room, and he’ll be on the sofa with Olympia. That blasted Olympia! She made fun of my face once and refused me. I shall drag Olympia by the hair and then drag Zverkov by the ears. No. Better by one ear. I shall take him all round the room by the ear. Quite likely they’ll all start beating me and will kick me out. That’s almost certain. But never mind. I’d have slapped his face first all the same. My initiative. And by the rules of honour that’s everything. He would be branded for life and he couldn’t wipe off the slap by any blows—no, by nothing but a duel. We will have to fight. Yes, let them beat me now. Let them, the ungrateful swine! I expect Trudolyubov will do most of the beating: he’s so strong. Ferfichkin will hang on to me from the side and quite certainly by the hair—yes, quite certainly by the hair. Well, let him. Let him. That’s the whole idea of my going there. The silly fools will be forced to realise at last that there’s something tragic here! When they’re dragging me to the door, I’ll shout to them that as a matter of fact they’re not worth my little finger. Come on, driver, hurry up!” I cried to the sledge-driver.
He gave a start and whipped up his horse—I shouted so fiercely.
“We shall fight at dawn, that’s settled. It’s all over with the department. Ferfichkin had said lepartment instead of department at dinner. But where am I to get the pistols? Nonsense! I’ll ask for an advance of salary and buy them. But the powder, the bullets? That’s not my business. Let the secon
d worry about that. But how can I get it all done by daybreak? And where am I to get a second? I have no friends.… Nonsense!” I cried, getting more and more carried away. “Nonsense! The first man I meet in the street is bound to be my second, as he would be bound to drag a drowning man out of the water. I must make allowances for the most improbable incidents. Why, even if I were to ask the head of my department himself tomorrow morning to be my second, he too would have to agree, if only from a feeling of chivalry, and keep the secret into the bargain! Anton Antonovich—”
The truth is that at that very moment the whole hideous absurdity of my plans became clearer and more obvious to me than to anyone else in the world. I saw clearly the other side of the medal, and yet—
“Faster, driver! Faster, you rascal! Faster!”
“Lord, sir,” said the son of the soil.
A cold shiver ran suddenly down my spine.
“But wouldn’t it be better—wouldn’t it be a hundred times better to—to go straight home? Oh, dear God, why did I have to invite myself to this dinner yesterday? But no—that’s impossible! And what about my walking up and down the room from the table to the stove for three hours? No, they—they alone will have to make amends to me for that walk! They must wipe out that dishonour! Drive on!
“… And what if they should hand me over to the police? They won’t dare! They’ll be afraid of a scandal! And what if Zverkov contemptuously refused to fight a duel? That’s most likely, but if that happens I’ll show them—I’ll go to the posting station when he is leaving tomorrow, seize him by the leg, drag his overcoat off him when he gets into the carriage. I’ll hang on to his arm with my teeth. I’ll bite him. ‘See to what lengths a desperate man can be driven?’ Let him punch me on the head and the others on the back. I’ll shout to all the people around, ‘Look, here’s a young puppy who’s going off to the Caucasus to captivate the girls there with my spit on his face!’
The Best Short Stories of Fyodor Dostoevsky (Modern Library Classics) Page 21
