The conversation, a serious and even heated one, was about a farewell dinner which these gentlemen wanted to organize jointly on the very next day for their schoolfellow Zverkov, an officer in the army, who was leaving for a province far away. M'sieur Zverkov had also been my schoolfellow all the while. I had begun especially to hate him starting in the higher grades. In the lower grades he had been just a pretty, frisky boy whom everybody liked. I, however, had hated him in the lower grades as well, precisely for being a pretty and frisky boy. He was always a bad student, and got worse as he went on. Nevertheless, he graduated successfully, because he had his protectors. In his last year at school he received an inheritance, two hundred souls, 13 and since we were almost all of us poor, he even began to swagger before us. He was a vulgarian in the highest degree, but a nice fellow nonetheless, even while swaggering. And despite the external, fantastic, and highfalutin forms of honor and glory in our school, everyone, apart from a very few, minced around Zverkov, the more so the more he swaggered. They minced not for the sake of some sort of profit, but just so, because he was a man favored with the gifts of nature. Besides, it was somehow an accepted thing among us to regard Zverkov as an expert in the line of adroitness and good manners. This last particularly infuriated me. I hated the sharp, un-self-doubting tone of his voice, his admiration of his own witticisms, which came out terribly stupid, though he did have a bold tongue; I hated his handsome but silly face (for which, by the way, I'd gladly have traded my intelligent one) and his free and easy officer-of-the-forties airs. I hated the things he used to say about his future successes with women (he hadn't ventured to start up with women, not having his officer's epaulettes yet, and was looking forward to them impatiently) and about how he'd be fighting duels all the time. I remember myself, always taciturn, suddenly lighting into Zverkov when he was talking with some friends about his future gallantries once during a recess, got quite playful in the end, like a puppy in the sun, and suddenly declared that he wouldn't leave a single village maiden on his estate without his attentions, that this was his droit de seigneur, 14 and if the peasants dared to protest, he'd give them all a whipping and heap a double quitrent on the bearded canaille. Our oafs applauded, but I lit into him, and not at all out of pity for maidens or their fathers, but simply because such a little snot was being so applauded. I got the best of him that time, but Zverkov, though stupid, was gay and impudent, and therefore laughed it off, and even in such a way that, in truth, I did not quite get the best of him: the laughter remained on his side. Later he got the best of me several more times, though not with spite, but just somehow jokingly, in passing, with a laugh. I spitefully and contemptuously refused to reply. Upon graduation he tried to make a step towards me, I did not resist too much, because it flattered me, but we quickly and naturally parted ways. Later I heard about his barracksy lieutenanty successes, about his carousing. Later other rumors went around - that he was succeeding in the service. Now he no longer greeted me in the street, and I suspected he was afraid of compromising himself by greeting a person as insignificant as I was. I also saw him in the theater once, in the third circle, now wearing aiguillettes. He was mincing and twining around the daughters of some ancient general. In three short years he had gone very much to seed, though he was still quite handsome and adroit; he had become somehow puffy and was beginning to grow fat; one could see that by the age of thirty he would be completely flabby. It was for this finally departing Zverkov that our fellows wanted to give a dinner. They had constantly associated with him all those three years, though inwardly they did not consider themselves on an equal footing with him, I'm sure of that.
Of Simonov's two guests, one was Ferfichkin, from Russian-German stock - short, monkey-faced, a fool who comically mimicked everyone, my bitterest enemy even in the lower grades - a mean, impudent little fanfaron who played at being most ticklishly ambitious, though of course he was a coward at heart. He was one of those admirers of Zverkov who flirted with him for his own ends, and often borrowed money from him. Simonov's other guest, Trudolyubov, was an unremarkable person, a military type, tall, with a cold physiognomy, honest enough, but worshiping any success, and capable only of discussing promotions. He was some sort of distant relation of Zverkov's, and that, silly though it was, endowed him with a certain significance among us. He had always regarded me as nothing, but treated me, if not quite politely, at least passably.
"Well, so, if it's seven roubles each," Trudolyubov said, "that makes twenty-one for the three of us - we can have a nice dinner. Zverkov doesn't pay, of course."
"Naturally not, since we're inviting him," Simonov decided.
"Do you really think," Ferfichkin broke in presumptuously and fervently, like an impudent lackey boasting of his master's, the general's, decorations, "do you really think Zverkov will let us pay for it all? He'll accept out of delicacy, but he'll stand us to a half-dozen himself."
"And what are the four of us going to do with a half-dozen," Trudolyubov remarked, having paid attention only to the half-dozen.
"So, it's the three of us, four with Zverkov, twenty-one roubles, the Hotel de Paris, tomorrow at five o'clock," Simonov, who had been elected manager, finally concluded.
"Why twenty-one?" I said, somewhat agitated, apparently even offended. "If you count me, it's twenty-eight roubles, not twenty-one."
It seemed to me that to offer myself suddenly and so unexpectedly would even be a most handsome thing, and they would all be won over at once and look upon me with respect.
"You want to come, too?" Simonov remarked with displeasure, somehow avoiding my eyes. He knew me by heart.
It infuriated me that he knew me by heart.
"What of it, sir? I would seem to be a schoolfellow, too, and I confess I'm even offended at being left out," I began seething again.
"And where does one go looking for you?" Ferfichkin rudely butted in.
"You were never on good terms with Zverkov," Trudolyubov added, frowning. But once I had fastened on, I would not let go.
"It seems to me that no one has any right to judge about that," I retorted, in a trembling voice, as if God knows what had happened. "Maybe that's precisely why I want to now, because we weren't on good terms before."
"Well, who can understand you… and these sublimities…" Trudolyubov smirked.
"You'll be put on the list," Simonov decided, turning to me. "Tomorrow, five o'clock, the Hotel de Paris; make no mistake."
"And the money!" Ferfichkin tried to begin, in a half-whisper, nodding towards me to Simonov, but he stopped short, because even Simonov became embarrassed.
"Enough," said Trudolyubov, rising. "Let him come, if he wants to so much."
"But we have our own circle, we're friends," Ferfichkin, angry, was also reaching for his hat. "This isn't an official meeting. Maybe we don't want you at all…"
They left; Ferfichkin did not even bow to me as he went out; Trudolyubov barely nodded, without looking. Simonov, with whom I was left face to face, was in some sort of annoyed perplexity and gave me a strange glance. He did not sit down, nor did he invite me to sit down.
"Hm… yes… tomorrow, then. And will you give me the money now? Just to know for certain," he muttered in embarrassment.
I flushed, but as I flushed I recalled that I had owed Simonov fifteen roubles from time immemorial, which, however, I had never forgotten, though I also had never repaid it.
"You must see, Simonov, that I couldn't have known on coming here… and I'm very annoyed with myself for forgetting…"
"All right, all right, never mind. You can pay tomorrow at dinner. I just wanted to know… Please don't…"
He stopped short and began pacing the room with even greater annoyance. As he paced, he started planting his heels and stomping still more heavily.
"I'm not keeping you, am I?" I asked, after a two-minute silence.
"Oh, no!" he suddenly roused himself, "that is, to tell the truth - yes. You see, I've also got to stop by at… Not far from here�
�" he added, in a sort of apologetic voice, and somewhat ashamedly.
"Ah, my God! Why didn't you say so!" I exclaimed, grabbing my cap, but with an appearance of remarkable nonchalance, which flew down to me from God knows where.
"It's not far, really…Just a couple of steps…" Simonov kept saying as he saw me to the entryway with a bustling air that did not become him at all. "Tomorrow, then, at five o'clock sharp!" he called out as I went down the stairs: he was so pleased I was leaving. I, however, was furious.
"What possessed me, what possessed me to pop up like that!" I gnashed my teeth, striding along the street. "And for that scoundrel, that little pig of a Zverkov! I mustn't go, of course; just spit on it, of course; I'm not bound, am I? Tomorrow I'll send Simonov a note…"
But what made me furious was that I knew I would certainly go; I would go on purpose; and the more tactless, the more improper it was for me to go, the sooner I would go.
And there was even a positive obstacle to my going: I had no money. All I had lying there was nine roubles. But of that, seven had to go the next day for the wages of Apollon, my servant, who lived with me for seven roubles a month, grub not included.
And not to pay him his wages was impossible, given Apollon's character. But of this dog, this thorn in my side, I will speak some other time.
Nevertheless, I knew that even so I would not pay him, but would certainly go.
That night I had the most hideous dreams. No wonder: all evening I was oppressed by recollections of the penal servitude of my school years, and I could not get rid of them. I had been tucked away in that school by distant relations whose dependent I was and of whom I had no notion thereafter - tucked away, orphaned, already beaten down by their reproaches, already pensive, taciturn, gazing wildly about at everything. My school fellows met me with spiteful and merciless derision, because I was not like any of them. But I could not endure derision; I could not get along so cheaply as they got along with each other. I immediately began to hate them, and shut myself away from everyone in timorous, wounded, and inordinate pride. Their crudeness outraged me. They laughed cynically at my face, my ungainly figure; and yet how stupid their own faces were! In our school facial expressions degenerated and would become somehow especially stupid. So many beautiful children came to us. A few years later it was disgusting even to look at them. Already at the age of sixteen I gloomily marveled at them; even then I was amazed at the pettiness of their thinking, the stupidity of their pastimes, games, conversations. They had so little understanding of the most essential things, so little interest in the most impressive, startling subjects, that I began, willy-nilly, to regard them as beneath me. It was not injured vanity that prompted me to do so, and for God's sake don't come creeping at me with those banal objections that one is sick of to the point of nausea - "that I was only dreaming, while they already understood real life." They understood nothing, no real life, and I swear it was this in them that outraged me most of all. On the contrary, they took the most obvious, glaring reality in a fantastically stupid way, and were already accustomed to worshiping success alone. Everything that was just, but humiliated and downtrodden, they laughed at disgracefully and hardheartedly. They regarded rank as intelligence; at the age of sixteen they were already talking about cushy billets. Of course, much of this came from stupidity, from the bad examples that had ceaselessly surrounded their childhood and adolescence. They were depraved to the point of monstrosity. To be sure, here, too, there was more of the external, more of an assumed cynicism; to be sure, youthfulness and a certain freshness could be glimpsed in them even through the depravity; but even this freshness was unattractive in them and showed itself as a sort of knavery. I hated them terribly, though I was perhaps worse than they were. They paid me back in kind and did not conceal their loathing for me. But I no longer had any wish for their love; on the contrary, I constantly thirsted for their humiliation. To rid myself of their derision, I purposely began to study as hard as I could and worked my way into the number of the best. This made an impression. Besides, they began little by little to realize that I had by then read such books as they were unable to read, and understood such things (not part of our special course) as they had never even heard of. This they regarded wildly and derisively, but morally they submitted, the more so as even the teachers paid attention to me in this respect. The derision stopped, but the animosity remained, and cold, strained relations set in. Towards the end I myself could not stand it: as I grew older, a need for people, for friends, developed. I tried to start getting closer with some; but the attempt always came out unnaturally and would simply end of itself. I also once had a friend. But I was already a despot in my soul; I wanted to have unlimited power over his soul; I wanted to instill in him a contempt for his surrounding milieu; I demanded of him a haughty and final break with that milieu. I frightened him with my passionate friendship; I drove him to tears, to convulsions; he was a naive, self-giving soul; but once he had given himself wholly to me, I immediately started to hate him and pushed him away - as if I had needed him only to gain a victory over him, only to bring him into subjection. But I could not be victorious over everyone; my friend was also not like any of them, and represented the rarest exception. The first thing I did upon leaving school was quit the special service for which I had been intended, in order to break all ties, to curse the past and bury it in the dust… And the devil knows why, after that, I dragged myself to this Simonov!…
In the morning I roused myself early, I jumped out of bed in agitation, as if all this was going to start happening right away. But then I did believe that some radical break in my life was coming and could not fail to come that very day. It may have been lack of habit or something, but all my life, when faced with any external event, be it ever so small, I always thought that right then some radical break in my life was going to come. Nevertheless, I went to work as usual, but slipped away two hours early to go home and get ready. The main thing, I thought, is that I mustn't be the first to arrive, or they'll think I'm all too delighted. But there were thousands of such main things, and they all agitated me to the point of impotence. I polished my boots a second time with my own hands; for the life of him Apollon would not have polished them twice in one day, finding it inordinate. I polished them, therefore, having stolen the brushes from the entryway so that he would not somehow notice and afterwards begin to despise me. Then I carefully inspected my clothes and found that everything was old, shabby, worn out. I had indeed become too slovenly. My uniform was perhaps in good condition, but I really couldn't go to dinner in my uniform. And the main thing was that on my trousers, right on the knee, there was a huge yellow spot. I could sense already that this spot alone would rob me of nine-tenths of my dignity. I also knew that it was very mean to think so. "But I can't be bothered with thinking now; now comes reality," I thought, and my heart sank. I also knew perfectly well, even then, that I was monstrously exaggerating all these facts; but there was nothing to be done: I could no longer control myself, I was shaking with fever. In despair I pictured how coldly and condescendingly that "scoundrel" Zverkov would meet me; with what dull, all-invincible contempt the dullard Trudolyubov would look at me; how nastily and impudently that little snot Ferfichkin would titter at my expense, sucking up to Zverkov; how perfectly Simonov would understand it all in himself, and how he would despise me for the meanness of my vanity and faintheartedness; and, the main thing - how measly, non- literary, commonplace it was all going to be. Of course, it would be best not to go at all. But that was more impossible than anything else: once I began to be drawn, I used to be drawn in all the way, over my head. Afterwards I'd have been taunting myself for the rest of my life: "So you turned coward, turned coward before reality, that's what you did, you turned coward!" On the contrary, I passionately wanted to prove to all that
"riffraff" that I was by no means the coward I made myself out to be. More than that: in the strongest paroxysm of cowardly fever, I dreamed of getting the best of them, winning t
hem over, carrying them away, making them love me - if only for my "lofty mind and indubitable wit." They would drop Zverkov, he would sit on the sidelines, silent and ashamed, and I would crush him. Afterwards I would perhaps make peace with him, and we would pledge eternal friendship, yet the most bitter and offensive thing for me was that I knew even then, knew fully and certainly, that in fact I needed none of that, and in fact I had no wish to crush, subject, or attract them, and would be the first not to give a penny for the whole outcome, even if I achieved it. Oh, how I prayed to God for that day to pass more quickly! In inexpressible anguish I kept going to the window, opening the vent, and peering into the dull darkness of thickly falling wet snow…
At last my wretched little wall clock hissed five. I grabbed my hat and, trying not to glance at Apollon - who since morning had been waiting to receive his wages from me, but in his pride refused to speak first - slipped past him out the door, and in a coach hired for the purpose with my last fifty kopecks, drove up like a grand gentleman to the Hotel de Paris.
IV
I had already known the evening before that I would be the first to arrive. But primacy was no longer the point. Not only were none of them there, but I even had difficulty finding our room. The table was not quite laid yet. What did it mean? After much questioning, I finally got out of the waiters that the dinner had been ordered for six o'clock, not five. This was confirmed in the bar. I was even ashamed to be asking. It was only five twenty-five. If they had changed the time, they ought in any case to have informed me; that's what the city mail is for; and not to have subjected me to "disgrace" both in my own and… be it only the waiters' eyes. I sat down; a waiter began laying the table; in his presence it felt somehow still more offensive. By six o'clock, in addition to the lighted lamps, candles were brought into the room. It had not occurred to the waiter, however, to bring them when I arrived. In the next room two customers, gloomy, angry-looking, and silent, were having dinner at separate tables. In one of the farther rooms it was very noisy; there was even shouting; the guffaws of a whole bunch of people could be heard; some nasty French squeals could be heard: it was a dinner with ladies. Quite nauseating, in short. Rarely have I spent a nastier moment, so that when, at exactly six o'clock, they all came in together, I was glad of them for the first moment as of some sort of deliverers, and almost forgot that I ought to look offended.
Notes from Underground Page 9
