PART II

À PROPOS OF THE WET SNOW

When from dark error's subjugation

My words of passionate exhortation

Had wrenched thy fainting spirit free;

And writhing prone in thine affliction

Thou didst recall with malediction

The vice that had encompassed thee:

And when thy slumbering conscience, fretting

By recollection's torturing flame,

Thou didst reveal the hideous setting

Of thy life's current ere I came:

When suddenly I saw thee sicken,

And weeping, hide thine anguished face,

Revolted, maddened, horror-stricken,

At memories of foul disgrace.

NEKRASSOV (_translated by Juliet Soskice_).

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 friends with

no one and positively avoided talking, and buried myself more and more

in my hole. At work in the office I never looked at any one, and I was

perfectly well aware that my companions looked upon me, not only as a

queer fellow, but even looked upon me--I always fancied this--with a

sort of loathing. I sometimes wondered why it was that nobody except me

fancied that he was looked upon with aversion? One of the clerks had a

most repulsive, pock-marked face, which looked positively villainous. I

believe I should not have dared to look at any one with such an

unsightly countenance. Another had such a very dirty old uniform that

there was an unpleasant odour in his proximity. Yet not one of these

gentlemen showed the slightest self-consciousness--either about 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 their superiors did

not look at them in that way. It is clear to me now that, owing to my

unbounded vanity and to the high standard I set for myself, I often

looked at myself with furious discontent, which verged on loathing, and

so I inwardly attributed the same feeling to every one. I hated my face,

for instance: I thought it disgusting, and even suspected that there was

something base in my expression, and so every day when I turned up at

the office I tried to behave as independently as possible, and to assume

a lofty expression, so that I might not be suspected of being abject.

"My face may be ugly," I thought, "but let it be lofty, expressive, and,

above all, _extremely_ intelligent." But I was positively and painfully

certain that it was impossible for my countenance ever to express those

qualities. And what was worst of all, I thought it actually stupid

looking, and I would have been quite satisfied if I could have looked

intelligent. In fact, I would even have put up with looking base if, at

the same time, my face could have been thought strikingly intelligent.

Of course, I hated my fellow clerks one and all, and I despised them

all, 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 despising them

and thinking them superior to myself. A cultivated and decent man cannot

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 eyes

almost every time I met any one. I even made experiments whether I could

face so and so's looking at me, and I was always the first to drop my

eyes. This worried me to distraction. I had a sickly dread, too, of

being ridiculous, and so had a slavish passion for the conventional in

everything external. I loved to fall into the common rut, and had a

whole-hearted terror of any kind of eccentricity in myself. But how

could I live up to it? I was morbidly sensitive, as a man of our age

should be. They were all stupid, and as like one another as so many

sheep. Perhaps I was the only one in the office who fancied that I was a

coward and a slave, and I fancied it just because I was more highly

developed. But it was not only that I fancied it, it really was so. I

was a coward and a slave. I say this without the slightest

embarrassment. Every decent man of our age must be a coward and a slave.

That is his normal condition. Of that I am firmly persuaded. He is made

and constructed to that very end. And not only at the present time owing

to some casual circumstances, but always, at all times, a decent man is

bound to be a coward and a slave. It is the law of nature for all decent

people all over the earth. If any one of them happens to be valiant

about something, he need not be comforted nor carried away by that; he

would show the white feather just the same before something else. That

is how it invariably and inevitably ends. Only donkeys and mules are

valiant, and they only till they are pushed up to the wall. It is not

worth while to pay attention to them for they really are of no

consequence.

Another circumstance, too, worried me in those days: that there was no

one like me and I was unlike any one else. "I am alone and they are

_every one_," 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 go

to the office; things reached such a point that I often came home ill.

But all at once, _à propos_ of nothing, there would come a phase of

scepticism and indifference (everything happened in phases to me), and I

would laugh myself at my intolerance and fastidiousness, I would

reproach myself with being _romantic_. At one time I was unwilling to

speak to any one, while at other times I would not only talk, but go to

the length of contemplating making friends with them. All my

fastidiousness would suddenly, for no rhyme or reason, vanish. Who

knows, perhaps I never had really had it, and it had simply been

affected, and got out of books. I have not decided that question even

now. Once I quite made friends with them, visited their homes, played

preference, drank vodka, talked of promotions.... But here let me make a

digression.

We Russians, speaking generally, have never had those foolish

transcendental "romantics"--German, and still more French--on whom

nothing produces any effect; if there were an earthquake, if all France

perished at the barricades, they would still be the same, they would not

even have the decency to affect a change, but would still go on singing

their transcendental songs to the hour of their death, because they are

fools. We, in Russia, have no fools; that is well known. That is what

distinguishes us from foreign lands. Consequently these transcendental

natures are not found amongst us in their pure form. The idea that they

are is due to our "realistic" journalists and critics of that day,

always on the look out for Kostanzhoglos and Uncle Pyotr Ivanitchs and

foolishly accepting them as our ideal; they have slandered our

romantics, taking them for the same transcendental sort as in Germany or

France. On the contrary, the characteristics of our "romantics" are

absolutely and directly opposed to the transcendental European type, and

no European standard can be applied to them. (Allow me to make use of

this word "romantic"--an old-fashioned and much respected word which has

done good service and is familiar to all). The characteristics of our

romantic are to understand everything, _to see everything and to see it

often incomparably more clearly than our most 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 as rent-free quarters at the

government expense, pensions, decorations), to keep their eye on that

object through all the enthusiasms and volumes of lyrical poems, and at

the same time to preserve "the good and the beautiful" inviolate within

them to the hour of their death, and to preserve themselves also,

incidentally, like some precious jewel wrapped in cotton wool if only

for the benefit of "the good and the beautiful." Our "romantic" is a man

of great breadth and the greatest rogue of all our rogues, I assure

you.... I can assure you from experience, indeed. Of course, that is, if

he is intelligent. But what am I saying! The romantic is always

intelligent, and I only meant to observe that although we have had

foolish romantics they don't count, and they were only so because in the

flower of their youth they degenerated into Germans, and to preserve

their precious jewel more comfortably, settled somewhere out there--by

preference in Weimar or the Black Forest.

I, for instance, genuinely despised my official work and did not openly

abuse 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 would rather

go out of his mind--a thing, however, which very rarely happens--than

take to open abuse, unless he had some other career in view; and he is

never kicked out. At most, they would take him to the lunatic asylum as

"the King of Spain" if he should go very mad. But it is only the thin,

fair people who go out of their minds in Russia. Innumerable "romantics"

attain later in life to considerable rank in the service. Their

many-sidedness is remarkable! And what a faculty they have for the most

contradictory sensations! I was comforted by this 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 lose their ideal even in the depths

of degradation; and though they never stir a finger for their ideal,

though they are arrant thieves and knaves, yet they tearfully cherish

their first ideal and are extraordinarily honest at heart. Yes, it is

only among us that the most incorrigible rogue can be absolutely and

loftily honest at heart without 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 practical knowledge that their bewildered superiors and the

public generally can only ejaculate in amazement.

Their many-sidedness is really amazing, and goodness knows what it may

develop into later on, and what the future has in store for us. It is

not a poor material! I do not say this from any foolish or boastful

patriotism. But I feel sure that you are again imagining that I am

joking. Or perhaps it's just the contrary, and you are convinced that I

really think so. Anyway, gentlemen, I shall welcome both views as an

honour and a special favour. And do forgive my digression.

I did not, of course, maintain friendly relations with my comrades and

soon was at loggerheads with them, and in my youth and inexperience I

even 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 tried to

stifle all that was continually seething within me by means of external

impressions. And the only external means I had was reading. Reading, of

course, was a great help--exciting me, giving me pleasure and pain. But

at times it bored me fearfully. One longed for movement in spite of

everything, and I plunged all at once into dark, underground, loathsome

vice of the pettiest kind. My wretched passions were acute, smarting,

from my continual, sickly irritability. I had hysterical impulses, with

tears and convulsions. I had no resource except reading, that is, there

was nothing in my surroundings which I could respect and which attracted

me. I was overwhelmed with depression, too; I had an hysterical craving

for incongruity and for contrast, and so I took to vice. I have not said

all this to justify myself.... But, no! I am lying. I did want to

justify myself. I make that little observation for my own benefit,

gentlemen. I don't want to lie. I vowed to myself I would not.

And so, furtively, timidly, in solitude, at night, I indulged in filthy

vice, with a feeling of shame which never deserted me, even at the most

loathsome moments, and which at such moments nearly made me curse.

Already even then I had my underground world in my soul. I was fearfully

afraid of being seen, of being met, of being recognized. I visited

various obscure haunts.

One night as I was passing a tavern I saw through a lighted window some

gentlemen fighting with billiard cues, and saw one of them thrown out of

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 the gentleman thrown

out of window--and I envied him so much that I even went into the tavern

and into the billiard-room. "Perhaps," I thought, "I'll have a fight,

too, and they'll throw me out of window."

I was not drunk--but what is one to do--depression will drive a man to

such a pitch of hysteria? But nothing happened. It seemed that I was not

even equal to being thrown out of window and I went away without 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 up the

way, and he wanted to pass; he took me by the shoulders and without a

word--without a warning or explanation--moved me from where I was

standing 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 moved me

without noticing me.

Devil knows what I would have given for a real regular quarrel--a more

decent, a more _literary_ one, so to speak. I had been treated like a

fly. This officer was over six foot, while I was a spindly little

fellow. But the quarrel was in my hands. I had only to protest and I

certainly would have been thrown out of the window. But I changed my

mind and preferred to beat a resentful retreat.

I went out of the tavern straight home, confused and troubled, and the

next night I went out again with the same lewd intentions, still more

furtively, abjectly and miserably than before, as it were, with tears in

my eyes--but still I did go out again. Don't imagine, though, it was

cowardice made me slink away from the officer: I never have been a

coward at heart, though I have always been a coward in action. Don't be

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 to

fight a duel! But no, he was one of those gentlemen (alas, long

extinct!) who preferred fighting with cues or, like Gogol's Lieutenant

Pirogov, appealing to the police. They did not fight duels and would

have thought a duel with a civilian like me an utterly unseemly

procedure in any case--and they looked upon the duel altogether as

something impossible, something free-thinking and French. But they were

quite ready to bully, especially when they were over six foot.

I did not slink away through cowardice, but through an unbounded vanity.

I was afraid not of his six foot, not of getting a sound thrashing and

being thrown out of the window; I should have had physical courage

enough, I assure you; but I had not the moral courage. What I was afraid

of was that every one present, from the insolent marker down to the

lowest little stinking, pimply clerk in a greasy collar, would jeer at

me and fail to understand when I began to protest and to address them in

literary language. For of the point of honour--not of honour, but of the

point of honour (_point d'honneur_)--one cannot speak among us except in

literary language. You can't allude to the "point of honour" in ordinary

language. I was fully convinced (the sense of reality, in spite of all

my romanticism!) that they would all simply split their sides with

laughter, and that the officer would not simply beat me, that is,

without insulting me, but would certainly prod me in the back with his

knee, kick me round the billiard table, and only then perhaps have pity

and drop me out of the window.

Of course, this trivial incident could not with me end in that. I often

met that officer afterwards in the street and noticed him very

carefully. I am not quite sure whether he recognized me, I imagine not;

I judge from certain signs. But I--I stared at him with spite and hatred

and so it went on ... for several years! My resentment grew even deeper

with years. At first I began making stealthy inquiries about this

officer. It was difficult for me to do so, for I knew no one. But one

day I heard some one shout his surname in the street as I was following

him at a distance, as though I were tied to him--and so I learnt his

surname. Another time I followed him to his flat, and for ten kopecks

learned from the porter where he lived, on which storey, whether he

lived alone or with others, and so on--in fact, everything one could

learn from a porter. One morning, though I had never tried my hand with

the pen, it suddenly occurred to me to write a satire on this officer in

the form of a novel which would unmask his villainy. I wrote the novel

with relish. I did unmask his villainy, I even exaggerated it; at first

I so altered his surname that it could easily be recognized, but on

second thoughts I changed it, and sent the story to the

_Otetchestvenniya Zapiski_. But at that time such attacks were not the

fashion and my story was not printed. That was a great vexation to me.

Sometimes I was positively choked with resentment. At last I determined

to challenge my enemy to a duel. I composed a splendid, charming letter

to him, imploring him to apologize to me, and hinting rather plainly at

a duel in case of refusal. The letter was so composed that if the

officer had had the least understanding of the good and the beautiful he

would certainly have flung himself on my neck and have offered me his

friendship. And how fine that would have been! How we should have got on

together! "He could have shielded me with his higher rank, while I could

have improved his mind with my culture, and, well ... my ideas, and all

sorts of things might have happened." Only fancy, this was two years

after his insult to me, and my challenge would have been a ridiculous

anachronism, in spite of all the ingenuity of my letter in disguising

and explaining away the anachronism. But, thank God (to this day I thank

the Almighty with tears in my eyes) I did not send the letter to him.

Cold shivers run down 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 of

genius! A brilliant thought suddenly dawned upon me. Sometimes on

holidays I used to stroll along the sunny side of the Nevsky about four

o'clock in the afternoon. Though it was hardly a stroll so much as a

series of innumerable miseries, humiliations and resentments; but no

doubt that was just what I wanted. I used to wriggle along in a most

unseemly fashion, like an eel, continually moving aside to make way for

generals, 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 I

used to feel hot all down my back at the mere thought of the

wretchedness of my attire, of the wretchedness and abjectness of my

little scurrying figure. This was a regular martyrdom, a continual,

intolerable humiliation at the thought, which passed into an incessant

and direct sensation, that I was a mere fly in the eyes of all this

world, a nasty, disgusting fly--more intelligent, more highly developed,

more refined in feeling than any of them, of course--but a fly that was

continually making way for every one, insulted and injured by every one.

Why I inflicted this torture upon myself, why I went to the Nevsky, I

don't know. I felt simply drawn there at every possible opportunity.

Already then I began to experience a rush of the enjoyment of which I

spoke in the first chapter. After my affair with the officer I felt even

more drawn there than before: it was on the Nevsky that I met him most

frequently, there I could admire him. He, too, went there chiefly on

holidays. He, too, turned out of his path for generals and persons of

high rank, and he, too, wriggled between them like an eel; but people,

like me, or even better dressed like me, he simply walked over; he made

straight for them as though there was nothing but empty space before

him, and never, under any circumstances, turned aside. I gloated over my

resentment watching him and ... always resentfully made way for him. It

exasperated me that even in the street I could not be on an even footing

with him.

"Why must you invariably be the first to move aside?" I kept asking

myself in hysterical rage, waking up sometimes at three o'clock in the

morning. "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 is

when refined people meet: he moves half-way and you move half-way; you

pass with mutual respect."

But that never happened, and I always moved aside, while he did not even

notice my making way for him. And lo and behold a bright idea dawned

upon me! "What," I thought, "if I meet him and don't move on one side?

What if I don't move aside on purpose, even if I knock up against him?

How would that be?" This audacious idea took such a hold on me that it

gave me no peace. I was dreaming of it continually, horribly, and I

purposely went more frequently to the Nevsky in order to picture more

vividly how I should do it when I did do it. I was delighted. This

intention seemed to me more and more practical and possible.

"Of course I shall not really push him," I thought, already more

good-natured in my joy. "I will simply not turn aside, will run up

against him, not very violently, but just shouldering each other--just

as much as decency permits. I will push against him just as much as he

pushes against me." At last I made up my mind completely. But my

preparations took a great deal of time. To begin with, when I carried

out my plan I should need to be looking rather more decent, and so I had

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 the most

_recherché_: the Countess walks there; Prince D. walks there; all the

literary world is there), I must be well dressed; that inspires respect

and of itself puts us on an equal footing in the eyes of society."

With this object I asked for some of my salary in advance, and bought at

Tchurkin's a pair of black gloves and a decent hat. Black gloves seemed

to me both more dignified and _bon ton_ than the lemon-coloured ones

which I had contemplated at first. "The colour is too gaudy, it looks as

though one were trying to be conspicuous," and I did not take the

lemon-coloured ones. I had got ready long beforehand a good shirt, with

white bone studs; my overcoat was the only thing that held me back. The

coat in itself was a very good one, it kept me warm; but it was wadded

and it had a raccoon collar which was the height of vulgarity. I had to

change the collar at any sacrifice, and to have a beaver one like an

officer's. For this purpose I began visiting the Gostiny Dvor and after

several attempts I pitched upon a piece of cheap German beaver. Though

these German beavers soon grow shabby and look wretched, yet at first

they look exceedingly well, and I only needed it for one 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 borrow from Anton Antonitch

Syetotchkin, my immediate superior, an unassuming person, though grave

and judicious. He never lent money to any one, but I had, on entering

the service, been specially recommended to him by an important personage

who had got me my berth. I was horribly worried. To borrow from Anton

Antonitch seemed to me monstrous and shameful. I did not sleep for two

or three nights. Indeed, I did not sleep well at that time, I was in a

fever; I had a vague sinking at my heart or else a sudden throbbing,

throbbing, throbbing! Anton Antonitch was surprised at first, then he

frowned, then he reflected, and did after all lend me the money,

receiving from me a written authorization to take from my salary a

fortnight later the sum that he had lent me.

In this way everything was at last ready. The handsome beaver replaced

the mean-looking raccoon, and I began by degrees to get to work. It

would never have done to act off-hand, at random; the plan had to be

carried out skilfully, by degrees. But I must confess that after many

efforts I began to despair: we simply could not run into each other. I

made every preparation, I was quite determined--it seemed as though we

should run into one another directly--and before I knew what I was doing

I had stepped aside for him again and he had passed without noticing me.

I even prayed as I approached him that God would grant me determination.

One time I had made up my mind thoroughly, but it ended in my stumbling

and falling at his feet because at the very last instant when I was six

inches from him my courage failed me. He very calmly stepped over me,

while I flew on one side like a ball. That night I was ill again,

feverish and delirious.

And suddenly it ended most happily. The night before I had made up my

mind not to carry out my fatal plan and to abandon it all, and with that

object I went to the Nevsky for the last time, just to see how I would

abandon it all. Suddenly, three paces from my enemy, I unexpectedly 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 and passed him on

a perfectly equal footing! He did not even look round and pretended not

to notice it; but he was only pretending, I am convinced of that. I am

convinced of that to this day! Of course, I got the worst of it--he was

stronger, but that was not the point. The point was that I had attained

my object, I had kept up my dignity, I had not yielded a step, and had

put myself publicly on an equal social footing with him. I returned home

feeling that I was fully avenged for everything. I was delighted. I was

triumphant and sang Italian arias. Of course, I will not describe to you

what happened to me three days later; if you have read my first chapter

you can guess that for yourself. The officer was afterwards transferred;

I have not seen him now for fourteen years. What is the dear fellow

doing now? Whom is he walking over?

II

But the period of my dissipation would end and I always felt very sick

afterwards. It was followed by remorse--I tried to drive it away: I felt

too sick. By degrees, however, I grew used to that too. I grew used to

everything, or rather I voluntarily resigned myself to enduring it. But

I had a means of escape that reconciled everything--that was to find

refuge in "the good and the beautiful," in dreams, of course. I was a

terrible dreamer, I would dream for three months on end, tucked away in

my corner, and you may believe me that at those moments I had no

resemblance to the gentleman who, in the perturbation of his chicken

heart, put a collar of German beaver on his great coat. I suddenly

became a hero. I would not have admitted my six-foot lieutenant even if

he had called on me. I could not even picture him before me then. What

were my dreams and how I could satisfy myself with them--it is hard to

say now, but at the time I was satisfied with them. Though, indeed, even

now, I am to some extent satisfied with them. Dreams were particularly

sweet and vivid after a spell of dissipation; they came with remorse and

with tears, with curses and transports. There were moments of such

positive intoxication, of such happiness, that there was not the

faintest trace of irony within me, on my honour. I had faith, hope,

love. I believed blindly at such times that by some miracle, by some

external circumstance, all this would suddenly open out, expand; that

suddenly a vista of suitable activity--beneficent, good, and, above all,

_ready made_ (what sort of activity I had no idea, but the great thing

was that it should be all ready for me)--would rise up before me--and I

should come out into the light of day, almost riding a white horse and

crowned with laurel. Anything but the foremost place I could not

conceive for myself, and for that very reason I quite contentedly

occupied the lowest in reality. Either to be a hero or to grovel in the

mud--there was nothing between. That was my ruin, for when I was in the

mud I comforted myself with the thought that at other times I was a

hero, and the hero was a cloak for the mud: for an ordinary man it was

shameful to defile himself, but a hero was too lofty to be utterly

defiled, and so he might defile himself. It is worth noting that these

attacks of the "good and the beautiful" visited me even during the

period of dissipation and just at the times when I was touching the

bottom. They came in separate spurts, as though reminding me of

themselves, but did not banish the dissipation by their appearance. On

the contrary, they seemed to add a zest to it by contrast, and were only

sufficiently present to serve as an appetizing sauce. That sauce was

made up of contradictions and sufferings, of agonizing inward analysis

and all these pangs and pin-pricks gave a certain piquancy, even a

significance to my dissipation--in fact, completely answered the purpose

of an appetizing sauce. There was a certain depth of meaning in it. And

I could hardly have resigned myself to the simple, vulgar, direct

debauchery of a clerk and have endured all the filthiness of it. What

could have allured me about it then and have drawn me at night into the

street? No, I had a lofty way of getting out of it all.

And what loving-kindness, oh Lord, what loving-kindness I felt at times

in those dreams of mine! in those "flights into the good and the

beautiful;" though it was fantastic love, though it was never applied to

anything human in reality, yet there was so much of this love that one

did not feel afterwards even the impulse to apply it in reality; that

would have been superfluous. Everything, however, passed satisfactorily

by a lazy and fascinating transition into the sphere of art, that is,

into the beautiful forms of life, lying ready, largely stolen from the

poets and novelists and adapted to all sorts of needs and uses. I, for

instance, was triumphant over every one; every one, of course, was in

dust and ashes, and was forced spontaneously to recognize my

superiority, and I forgave them all. I was a poet and a grand gentleman,

I fell in love; I came in for countless millions and immediately devoted

them to humanity, and at the same time I confessed before all the people

my shameful deeds, which, of course, were not merely shameful, but had

in them much that was "good and beautiful," something in the Manfred

style. Every one would kiss me and weep (what idiots they would be if

they did not), while I should go barefoot and hungry preaching new ideas

and fighting a victorious Austerlitz against the obscurantists. Then the

band would play a march, an amnesty would be declared, the Pope would

agree to retire from Rome to Brazil; then there would be a ball for the

whole of Italy at the Villa Borghese on the shores of the Lake of Como,

the Lake of Como being for that purpose transferred to the neighbourhood

of Rome; then would come a scene in the bushes, and so on, and so on--as

though you did not know all about it? You will say that it is vulgar and

contemptible to drag all this into public after all the tears and

transports which I have myself confessed. But why is it contemptible?

Can you imagine that I am ashamed of it all, and that it was stupider

than anything in your life, gentlemen? And I can assure you that some of

these fancies were by no means badly composed.... It did not all happen

on the shores of Lake Como. And yet you are right--it really is vulgar

and contemptible. And most contemptible of all it is that now I am

attempting to justify myself to you. And even more contemptible than

that is my making this remark now. But that's enough, or there will be

no end to it: each step will be more contemptible than the last....

I could never stand more than three months of dreaming at a time without

feeling an irresistible desire to plunge into society. To plunge into

society meant to visit my superior at the office, Anton Antonitch

Syetotchkin. He was the only permanent acquaintance I have had in my

life, and wonder at the fact myself now. But I only went to see him when

that phase came over me, and when my dreams had reached such a point of

bliss that it became essential at once to embrace my fellows and all

mankind; and for that purpose I needed, at least, one human being,

actually existing. I had to call on Anton Antonitch, however, on

Tuesday--his at-home day; so I had always to time my passionate desire

to embrace humanity so that it might fall on a Tuesday.

This Anton Antonitch lived on the fourth storey in a house in Five

Corners, in four low-pitched rooms, one smaller than the other, of a

particularly frugal and sallow appearance. He had two daughters and

their aunt, who used to pour out the tea. Of the daughters one was

thirteen and another fourteen, they both had snub noses, and I was

awfully shy of them because they were always whispering and giggling

together. The master of the house usually sat in his study on a leather

couch in front of the table with some grey-headed gentleman, usually a

colleague from our office or some other department. I never saw more

than two or three visitors there, always the same. They talked about the

excise duty; about business in the senate, about salaries, about

promotions, about His Excellency, and the best means of pleasing him,

and so on. I had the patience to sit like a fool beside these people for

four hours at a stretch, listening to them without knowing what to say

to them or venturing to say a word. I became stupified, several times I

felt myself perspiring, I was overcome by a sort of paralysis; but this

was pleasant and good for me. On returning home I deferred for a time my

desire to embrace all mankind.

I had however one other acquaintance of a sort, Simonov, who was an old

schoolfellow. I had a number of schoolfellows indeed in Petersburg, but

I did not associate with them and had even given up nodding to them in

the street. I believe I had transferred into the department I was in

simply to avoid their company and to cut off all connection with my

hateful childhood. Curses on that school and all those terrible years of

penal servitude! In short, I parted from my schoolfellows as soon as I

got out into the world. 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! And to-morrow I can send a

challenge. The scoundrels! As though I cared about the seven roubles.

They may think.... Damn it! I don't care about the seven roubles. I'll

go this minute!"

Of course I remained. I drank sherry and Lafitte by the glassful in my

discomfiture. Being unaccustomed to it, I was quickly affected. My

annoyance increased as the wine went to my head. I longed all at once to

insult them all in a most flagrant manner and then go away. To seize the

moment and show what I could do, so that they would say, "He's clever,

though he is absurd," and ... and ... in fact, damn them all!

I scanned them all insolently with my drowsy eyes. But they seemed to

have forgotten me altogether. They were noisy, vociferous, cheerful.

Zverkov was talking all the time. I began listening. Zverkov was talking

of some exuberant lady whom he had at last led on to declaring her love

(of course, he was lying like a horse), and how he had been helped in

this affair by an intimate friend of his, a Prince Kolya, an officer in

the hussars, who had three thousand serfs.

"And yet this Kolya, who has three thousand serfs, has not put in an

appearance here to-night to see you off," I cut in suddenly.

For a minute every one was silent. "You are drunk already." Trudolyubov

deigned to notice me at last, glancing contemptuously in my direction.

Zverkov, without a word, examined me as though I were an insect. I

dropped my eyes. Simonov made haste to fill up the glasses with

champagne.

Trudolyubov raised his glass, as did every one else but me.

"Your health and good luck on the journey!" he cried to Zverkov. "To old

times, to our future, hurrah!"

They all tossed off their glasses, and crowded round Zverkov to kiss

him. I did not move; my full glass stood untouched before me.

"Why, aren't you going to drink it?" roared Trudolyubov, losing patience

and turning menacingly to me.

"I want to make a speech separately, on my own account ... and then I'll

drink it, Mr. Trudolyubov."

"Spiteful brute!" muttered Simonov. I drew myself up in my chair and

feverishly seized my glass, prepared for something extraordinary, though

I did not know myself precisely what I was going to say.

"_Silence!_" cried Ferfitchkin. "Now for a display of wit!"

Zverkov waited very gravely, knowing what was coming.

"Mr. Lieutenant Zverkov," I began, "let me tell you that I hate phrases,

phrasemongers and men in corsets ... that's the first point, and there

is a second one to follow it."

There was a general stir.

"The second point is: I hate ribaldry and ribald talkers. Especially

ribald talkers! The third point: I love justice, truth and honesty." I

went on almost mechanically, for I was beginning to shiver with horror

myself and had no idea how I came to be talking like this. "I love

thought, Monsieur Zverkov; I love true comradeship, on an equal footing

and not.... H'm ... I love.... But, however, why not? I will drink your

health, too, Mr. Zverkov. Seduce the Circassian girls, shoot the enemies

of the fatherland and ... and ... to your health, Monsieur Zverkov!"

Zverkov got up from his seat, bowed to me and said:

"I am very much obliged to you." He was frightfully offended and turned

pale.

"Damn the fellow!" roared Trudolyubov, bringing his fist down on the

table.

"Well, he wants a punch in the face for that," squealed Ferfitchkin.

"We ought to turn him out," muttered Simonov.

"Not a word, gentlemen, not a movement!" cried Zverkov solemnly,

checking the general indignation. "I thank you all, but I can show him

for myself how much value I attach to his words."

"Mr. Ferfitchkin, you will give me satisfaction to-morrow for your words

just now!" I said aloud, turning with dignity to Ferfitchkin.

"A duel, you mean? Certainly," he answered. But probably I was so

ridiculous as I challenged him and it was so out of keeping with my

appearance that everyone, including Ferfitchkin, was prostrate with

laughter.

"Yes, let him alone, of course! He is quite drunk," Trudolyubov said

with disgust.

"I shall never forgive myself for letting him join us," Simonov muttered

again.

"Now is the time to throw a bottle at their heads," I thought to myself.

I picked up the bottle ... and filled my glass.... "No, I'd better sit

on to the end," I went on thinking; "you would be pleased, my friends if

I went away. Nothing will induce me to go. I'll go on sitting here and

drinking to the end, on purpose, as a sign that I don't think you of the

slightest consequence. I will go on sitting and drinking, because this

is a public-house and I paid my entrance money. I'll sit here and drink,

for I look upon you as so many pawns, as inanimate pawns. I'll sit here

and drink ... and sing if I want to, yes, sing, for I have the right to

... to sing.... H'm!"

But I did not sing. I simply tried not to look at any of them. I assumed

most unconcerned attitudes and waited with impatience for them to speak

_first_. But alas, they did not address me! And oh, how I wished, how I

wished at that moment to be reconciled to them! It struck eight, at last

nine. They moved from the table to the sofa. Zverkov stretched himself

on a lounge and put one foot on a round table. Wine was brought there.

He did, as a fact, order three bottles on his own account. I, of course,

was not invited to join them. They all sat round him on the sofa. They

listened to him, almost with reverence. It was evident that they were

fond of him. "What for? What for?" I wondered. From time to time they

were moved to drunken enthusiasm and kissed each other. They talked of

the Caucasus, of the nature of true passion, of snug berths in the

service, of the income of an hussar called Podharzhevsky, whom none of

them knew personally, and rejoiced in the largeness of it, of the

extraordinary grace and beauty of a Princess D., whom none of them had

ever seen; then it came to Shakespeare's being immortal.

I smiled contemptuously and walked up and down the other side of the

room, opposite the sofa, from the table to the stove and back again. I

tried my very utmost to show them that I could do without them, and yet

I purposely made a noise with my boots, thumping with my heels. But it

was all in vain. They paid no attention. I had the patience to walk up

and down in front of them from eight o'clock till eleven, in the same

place, from the table to the stove and back again. "I walk up and down

to please myself and no one can prevent me." The waiter who came into

the room stopped, from time to time, to look at me. I was somewhat giddy

from turning round so often; at moments it seemed to me that I was in

delirium. During those three hours I was three times soaked with sweat

and dry again. At times, with an intense, acute pang I was stabbed to

the heart by the thought that ten years, twenty years, forty years would

pass, and that even in forty years I would remember with loathing and

humiliation those filthiest, most ludicrous, and most awful moments of

my life. No one could have gone out of his way to degrade himself more

shamelessly, and I fully realized it, fully, and yet I went on pacing up

and down from the table to the stove. "Oh, if you only knew what

thoughts and feelings I am capable of, how cultured I am!" I thought at

moments, mentally addressing the sofa on which my enemies were sitting.

But my enemies behaved as though I were not in the room. Once--only

once--they turned towards me, just when Zverkov was talking about

Shakespeare, and I suddenly gave a contemptuous laugh. I laughed in such

an affected and disgusting way that they all at once broke off their

conversation, and silently and gravely for two minutes watched me

walking up and down from the table to the stove, _taking no notice of

them_. But nothing came of it: they said nothing, and two minutes later

they ceased to notice me again. It struck eleven.

"Friends," cried Zverkov getting up from the sofa, "let us all be off

now, _there_!"

"Of course, of course," the others assented. I turned sharply to

Zverkov. I was so harassed, so exhausted, that I would have cut my

throat to put an end to it. I was in a fever; my hair, soaked with

perspiration, stuck to my forehead and temples.

"Zverkov, I beg your pardon," I said abruptly and resolutely.

"Ferfitchkin, yours too, and every one's, every one's: I have insulted

you all!"

"Aha! A duel is not in your line, old man," Ferfitchkin hissed

venomously.

It sent a sharp pang to my heart.

"No, it's not the duel I am afraid of, Ferfitchkin! I am ready to fight

you to-morrow, after we are reconciled. I insist upon it, in fact, and

you cannot refuse. I want to show you that I am not afraid of a duel.

You shall fire first and I shall fire into the air."

"He is comforting himself," said Simonov.

"He's simply raving," said Trudolyubov.

"But let us pass. Why are you barring our way? What do you want?"

Zverkov answered disdainfully.

They were all flushed; their eyes were bright: they had been drinking

heavily.

"I ask for your friendship, Zverkov; I insulted you, but...."

"Insulted? _You_ insulted _me_? Understand, sir, that you never, under

any circumstances, could possibly insult _me_."

"And that's enough for you. Out of the way!" concluded Trudolyubov.

"Olympia is mine, friends, that's agreed!" cried Zverkov.

"We won't dispute your right, we won't dispute your right," the others

answered, laughing.

I stood as though spat upon. The party went noisily out of the room.

Trudolyubov struck up some stupid song. Simonov remained behind for a

moment to tip the waiters. I suddenly went up to him.

"Simonov! give me six roubles!" I said, with desperate resolution.

He looked at me in extreme amazement, with vacant eyes. He, too, was

drunk.

"You don't mean you are coming with us?"

"Yes."

"I've no money," he snapped out, and with a scornful laugh he went out

of the room.

I clutched at his overcoat. It was a nightmare.

"Simonov, I saw you had money. Why do you refuse me? Am I a scoundrel?

Beware of refusing me: if you knew, if you knew why I am asking! My

whole future, my whole plans depend upon it!"

Simonov pulled out the money and almost flung it at me.

"Take it, if you have no sense of shame!" he pronounced pitilessly, and

ran to overtake them.

I was left for a moment alone. Disorder, the remains of dinner, a broken

wine-glass on the floor, spilt wine, cigarette ends, fumes of drink and

delirium in my brain, an agonizing misery in my heart and finally the

waiter, who had seen and heard all and was looking inquisitively into my

face.

"I am going there!" I cried. "Either they shall all go down on their

knees to beg for my friendship, or I will give Zverkov a slap in the

face!"

V

"So this is it, this is it at last--contact with real life," I muttered

as I ran headlong downstairs. "This is very different from the Pope's

leaving Rome and going to Brazil, very different from the ball on Lake

Como!"

"You are a scoundrel," a thought flashed through my mind, "if you laugh

at this now."

"No matter!" I cried, answering myself. "Now everything is lost!"

There was no trace to be seen of them, but that made no difference--I

knew where they had gone.

At the steps was standing a solitary night sledge-driver in a rough

peasant coat, powdered over with the still falling, wet, and as it were

warm, snow. It was hot and steamy. The little shaggy piebald horse was

also covered with snow and coughing, I remember that very well. I made a

rush for the roughly made sledge; but as soon as I raised my foot to get

into it, the recollection of how Simonov had just given me six roubles

seemed to double me up and I tumbled into the sledge like a sack.

"No, I must do a great deal to make up for all that," I cried. "But I

will make up for it or perish on the spot this very night. Start!"

We set off. There was a perfect whirl in my head.

"They won't go down on their knees to beg for my friendship. That is a

mirage, cheap mirage, revolting, romantic and fantastical--that's

another ball on Lake Como. And so I am bound to slap Zverkov's face! It

is my duty to. And so it is settled; I am flying to give him a slap in

the face. Hurry up!"

The driver tugged at the reins.

"As soon as I go in I'll give it him. Ought I before giving him the slap

to say a few words by way of preface? No. I'll simply go in and give it

him. They will all be sitting in the drawing-room, and he with Olympia

on the sofa. That damned Olympia! She laughed at my looks on one

occasion and refused me. I'll pull Olympia's hair, pull Zverkov's ears!

No, better one ear, and pull him by it round the room. Maybe they will

all begin beating me and will kick me out. That's most likely, indeed.

No matter! Anyway, I shall first slap him; the initiative will be mine;

and by the laws of honour that is everything: he will be branded and

cannot wipe off the slap by any blows, by nothing but a duel. He will be

forced to fight. And let them beat me now. Let them, the ungrateful

wretches! Trudolyubov will beat me hardest, he is so strong; Ferfitchkin

will be sure to catch hold sideways and tug at my hair. But no matter,

no matter! That's what I am going for. The blockheads will be forced at

last to see the tragedy of it all! When they drag me to the door I shall

call out to them that in reality they are not worth my little finger.

Get on, driver, get on!" I cried to the driver. He started and flicked

his whip, I shouted so savagely.

"We shall fight at daybreak, that's a settled thing. I've done with the

office. Ferfitchkin made a joke about it just now. But where can I get

pistols? Nonsense! I'll get my salary in advance and buy them. And

powder, and bullets? That's the second's business. And how can it all be

done by daybreak? And where am I to get a second? I have no friends.

Nonsense!" I cried, lashing myself up more and more. "It's of no

consequence! the first person I meet in the street is bound to be my

second, just as he would be bound to pull a drowning man out of water.

The most eccentric things may happen. Even if I were to ask the director

himself to be my second to-morrow, he would be bound to consent, if only

from a feeling of chivalry, and to keep the secret! Anton Antonitch...."

The fact is, that at that very minute the disgusting absurdity of my

plan and the other side of the question was clearer and more vivid to my

imagination than it could be to any one on earth. But....

"Get on, driver, get on, you rascal, get on!"

"Ugh, sir!" said the son of toil.

Cold shivers suddenly ran down me. Wouldn't it be better ... to go

straight home? My God, my God! Why did I invite myself to this dinner

yesterday? But no, it's impossible. And my walking up and down for three

hours from the table to the stove? No, they, they and no one else must

pay for my walking up and down! They must wipe out this dishonour! Drive

on!

And what if they give me into custody? They won't dare! They'll be

afraid of the scandal. And what if Zverkov is so contemptuous that he

refuses to fight a duel? He is sure to; but in that case I'll show them

... I will turn up at the posting station when he is setting off

to-morrow, I'll catch him by the leg, I'll pull off his coat when he

gets into the carriage. I'll get my teeth into his hand, I'll bite him.

"See what lengths you can drive a desperate man to!" He may hit me on

the head and they may belabour me from behind. I will shout to the

assembled multitude: "Look at this young puppy who is driving off to

captivate the Circassian girls after letting me spit in his face!"

Of course, after that everything will be over! The office will have

vanished off the face of the earth. I shall be arrested, I shall be

tried, I shall be dismissed from the service, thrown in prison, sent to

Siberia. Never mind! In fifteen years when they let me out of prison I

will trudge off to him, a beggar, in rags. I shall find him in some

provincial town. He will be married and happy. He will have a grown-up

daughter.... I shall say to him: "Look, monster, at my hollow cheeks and

my rags! I've lost everything--my career, my happiness, art, science,

_the woman I loved_, and all through you. Here are pistols. I have come

to discharge my pistol and ... and I ... forgive you. Then I shall fire

into the air and he will hear nothing more of me...."

I was actually on the point of tears, though I knew perfectly well at

that moment that all this was out of Pushkin's _Silvio_ and Lermontov's

_Masquerade_. And all at once I felt horribly ashamed, so ashamed that I

stopped the horse, got out of the sledge, and stood still in the snow in

the middle of the street. The driver gazed at me, sighing and

astonished.

What was I to do? I could not go on there--it was evidently stupid, and

I could not leave things as they were, because that would seem as

though.... Heavens, how could I leave things! And after such insults!

"No!" I cried, throwing myself into the sledge again. "It is ordained!

It is fate! Drive on, drive on!"

And in my impatience I punched the sledge-driver on the back of the

neck.

"What are you up to? What are you hitting me for?" the peasant shouted,

but he whipped up his nag so that it began kicking.

The wet snow was falling in big flakes; I unbuttoned myself, regardless

of it. I forgot everything else, for I had finally decided on the slap,

and felt with horror that it was going to happen _now, at once_, and

that _no force could stop it_. The deserted street lamps gleamed

sullenly in the snowy darkness like torches at a funeral. The snow

drifted under my great-coat, under my coat, under my cravat, and melted

there. I did not wrap myself up--all was lost, anyway.

At last we arrived. I jumped out, almost unconscious, ran up the steps

and began knocking and kicking at the door. I felt fearfully weak,

particularly in my legs and my knees. The door was opened quickly as

though they knew I was coming. As a fact, Simonov had warned them that

perhaps another gentleman would arrive, and this was a place in which

one had to give notice and to observe certain precautions. It was one of

those "millinery establishments" which were abolished by the police a

good time ago. By day it really was a shop; but at night, if one had an

introduction, one might visit it for other purposes.

I walked rapidly through the dark shop into the familiar drawing-room,

where there was only one candle burning, and stood still in amazement:

there was no one there. "Where are they?" I asked somebody. But by now,

of course, they had separated. Before me was standing a person with a

stupid smile, the "madam" herself, who had seen me before. A minute

later a door opened and another person came in.

Taking no notice of anything I strode about the room, and, I believe, I

talked to myself. I felt as though I had been saved from death and was

conscious of this, joyfully, all over: I should have given that slap, I

should certainly, certainly have given it! But now they were not here

and ... everything had vanished and changed! I looked round. I could not

realize my condition yet. I looked mechanically at the girl who had come

in: and had a glimpse of a fresh, young, rather pale face, with

straight, dark eyebrows, and with grave, as it were wondering, eyes that

attracted me at once; I should have hated her if she had been smiling. I

began looking at her more intently and, as it were, with effort. I had

not fully collected my thoughts. There was something simple and

good-natured in her face, but something strangely grave. I am sure that

this stood in her way here, and no one of those fools had noticed her.

She could not, however, have been called a beauty, though she was tall,

strong-looking, and well built. She was very simply dressed. Something

loathsome stirred within me. I went straight up to her.

I chanced to look into the glass. My harassed face struck me as

revolting in the extreme, pale, angry, abject, with dishevelled hair.

"No matter, I am glad of it," I thought; "I am glad that I shall seem

repulsive to her; I like that."

VI

... Somewhere behind a screen a clock began wheezing, as though

oppressed by something, as though some one were strangling it. After an

unnaturally prolonged wheezing there followed a shrill, nasty, and as it

were unexpectedly rapid, chime--as though some one were suddenly jumping

forward. It struck two. I woke up, though I had indeed not been asleep

but lying half conscious.

It was almost completely dark in the narrow, cramped, low-pitched room,

cumbered up with an enormous wardrobe and piles of cardboard boxes and

all sorts of frippery and litter. The candle end that had been burning

on the table was going out and gave a faint flicker from time to time.

In a few minutes there would be complete darkness.

I was not long in coming to myself; everything came back to my mind at

once, without an effort, as though it had been in ambush to pounce upon

me again. And, indeed, even while I was unconscious a point seemed

continually to remain in my memory unforgotten, and round it my dreams

moved drearily. But strange to say, everything that had happened to me

in that day seemed to me now, on waking, to be in the far, far away

past, as though I had long, long ago lived all that down.

My head was full of fumes. Something seemed to be hovering over me,

rousing me, exciting me, and making me restless. Misery and spite seemed

surging up in me again and seeking an outlet. Suddenly I saw beside me

two wide open eyes scrutinizing me curiously and persistently. The look

in those eyes was coldly detached, sullen, as it were utterly remote; it

weighed upon me.

A grim idea came into my brain and passed all over my body, as a

horrible sensation, such as one feels when one goes into a damp and

mouldy cellar. There was something unnatural in those two eyes,

beginning to look at me only now. I recalled, too, that during those two

hours I had not said a single word to this creature, and had, in fact,

considered it utterly superfluous; in fact, the silence had for some

reason gratified me. Now I suddenly realized vividly the hideous

idea--revolting as a spider--of vice, which, without love, grossly and

shamelessly begins with that in which true love finds its consummation.

For a long time we gazed at each other like that, but she did not drop

her eyes before mine and her expression did not change, so that at last

I felt uncomfortable.

"What is your name?" I asked abruptly, to put an end to it.

"Liza," she answered almost in a whisper, but somehow far from

graciously, and she turned her eyes away.

I was silent.

"What weather! The snow ... it's disgusting!" I said, almost to myself,

putting my arm under my head despondently, and gazing at the ceiling.

She made no answer. This was horrible.

"Have you always lived in Petersburg?" I asked a minute later, almost

angrily, turning my head slightly towards her.

"No."

"Where do you come from?"

"From Riga," she answered reluctantly.

"Are you a German?"

"No, Russian."

"Have you been here long?"

"Where?"

"In this house?"

"A fortnight."

She spoke more and more jerkily. The candle went out; I could no longer

distinguish her face.

"Have you a father and mother?"

"Yes ... no ... I have."

"Where are they?"

"There ... in Riga."

"What are they?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Nothing? Why, what class are they?"

"Tradespeople."

"Have you always lived with them?"

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"Twenty."

"Why did you leave them?"

"Oh, for no reason."

That answer meant "Let me alone; I feel sick, sad."

We were silent.

God knows why I did not go away. I felt myself more and more sick and

dreary. The images of the previous day began of themselves, apart from

my will, flitting through my memory in confusion. I suddenly recalled

something I had seen that morning when, full of anxious thoughts, I was

hurrying to the office.

"I saw them carrying a coffin out yesterday and they nearly dropped it,"

I suddenly said aloud, not that I desired to open the conversation, but

as it were by accident.

"A coffin?"

"Yes, in the Haymarket; they were bringing it up out of a cellar."

"From a cellar?"

"Not from a cellar, but from a basement. Oh, you know ... down below ...

from a house of ill-fame. It was filthy all round.... Egg-shells, litter

... a stench. It was loathsome."

Silence.

"A nasty day to be buried," I began, simply to avoid being silent.

"Nasty, in what way?"

"The snow, the wet." (I yawned.)

"It makes no difference," she said suddenly, after a brief silence.

"No, it's horrid." (I yawned again.) "The gravediggers must have sworn

at getting drenched by the snow. And there must have been water in the

grave."

"Why water in the grave?" she asked, with a sort of curiosity, but

speaking even more harshly and abruptly than before.

I suddenly began to feel provoked.

"Why, there must have been water at the bottom a foot deep. You can't

dig a dry grave in Volkovo Cemetery."

"Why?"

"Why? Why, the place is waterlogged. It's a regular marsh. So they bury

them in water. I've seen it myself ... many times."

(I had never seen it once, indeed I had never been in Volkovo, and had

only heard stories of it.)

"Do you mean to say, you don't mind how you die?"

"But why should I die?" she answered, as though defending herself.

"Why, some day you will die, and you will die just the same as that dead

woman. She was ... a girl like you. She died of consumption."

"A wench would have died in hospital...." (She knows all about it

already: she said "wench," not "girl.")

"She was in debt to her madam," I retorted, more and more provoked by

the discussion; "and went on earning money for her up to the end, though

she was in consumption. Some sledge-drivers standing by were talking

about her to some soldiers and telling them so. No doubt they knew her.

They were laughing. They were going to meet in a pot-house to drink to

her memory."

A great deal of this was my invention. Silence followed, profound

silence. She did not stir.

"And is it better to die in a hospital?"

"Isn't it just the same? Besides, why should I die?" she added

irritably.

"If not now, a little later."

"Why a little later?"

"Why, indeed? Now you are young, pretty, fresh, you fetch a high price.

But after another year of this life you will be very different--you will

go off."

"In a year?"

"Anyway, in a year you will be worth less," I continued malignantly.

"You will go from here to something lower, another house; a year

later--to a third, lower and lower, and in seven years you will come to

a basement in the Haymarket. That will be if you were lucky. But it

would be much worse if you got some disease, consumption, say ... and

caught a chill, or something or other. It's not easy to get over an

illness in your way of life. If you catch anything you may not get rid

of it. And so you would die."

"Oh, well, then I shall die," she answered, quite vindictively, and she

made a quick movement.

"But one is sorry."

"Sorry for whom?"

"Sorry for life."

Silence.

"Have you been engaged to be married? Eh?"

"What's that to you?"

"Oh, I am not cross-examining you. It's nothing to me. Why are you so

cross? Of course you may have had your own troubles. What is it to me?

It's simply that I felt sorry."

"Sorry for whom?"

"Sorry for you."

"No need," she whispered hardly audibly, and again made a faint

movement.

That incensed me at once. What! I was so gentle with her, and she....

"Why, do you think that you are on the right path?"

"I don't think anything."

"That's what's wrong, that you don't think. Realize it while there is

still time. There still is time. You are still young, good-looking; you

might love, be married, be happy...."

"Not all married women are happy," she snapped out in the rude abrupt

tone she had used at first.

"Not all, of course, but anyway it is much better than the life here.

Infinitely better. Besides, with love one can live even without

happiness. Even in sorrow life is sweet; life is sweet, however one

lives. But here what is there but ... foulness. Phew!"

I turned away with disgust; I was no longer reasoning coldly. I began to

feel myself what I was saying and warmed to the subject. I was already

longing to expound the cherished ideas I had brooded over in my corner.

Something suddenly flared up in me. An object had appeared before me.

"Never mind my being here, I am not an example for you. I am, perhaps,

worse than you are. I was drunk when I came here, though," I hastened,

however, to say in self-defence. "Besides, a man is no example for a

woman. It's a different thing. I may degrade and defile myself, but I am

not any one's slave. I come and go, and that's an end of it. I shake it

off, and I am a different man. But you are a slave from the start. Yes,

a slave! You give up everything, your whole freedom. If you want to

break your chains afterwards, you won't be able to: you will be more and

more fast in the snares. It is an accursed bondage. I know it. I won't

speak of anything else, maybe you won't understand, but tell me: no

doubt you are in debt to your madam? There, you see," I added, though

she made no answer, but only listened in silence, entirely absorbed,

"that's a bondage for you! You will never buy your freedom. They will

see to that. It's like selling your soul to the devil.... And besides

... perhaps I, too, am just as unlucky--how do you know--and wallow in

the mud on purpose, out of misery? You know, men take to drink from

grief; well, maybe I am here from grief. Come, tell me, what is there

good here? Here you and I ... came together ... just now and did not say

one word to one another all the time, and it was only afterwards you

began staring at me like a wild creature, and I at you. Is that loving?

Is that how one human being should meet another? It's hideous, that's

what it is!"

"Yes!" she assented sharply and hurriedly.

I was positively astounded by the promptitude of this "Yes." So the same

thought may have been straying through her mind when she was staring at

me just before. So she, too, was capable of certain thoughts? "Damn it

all, this was interesting, this was a point of likeness!" I thought,

almost rubbing my hands. And indeed it's easy to turn a young soul like

that!

It was the exercise of my power that attracted me most.

She turned her head nearer to me, and it seemed to me in the darkness

that she propped herself on her arm. Perhaps she was scrutinizing me.

How I regretted that I could not see her eyes. I heard her deep

breathing.

"Why have you come here?" I asked her, with a note of authority already

in my voice.

"Oh, I don't know."

"But how nice it would be to be living in your father's house! It's warm

and free; you have a home of your own."

"But what if it's worse than this?"

"I must take the right tone," flashed through my mind. "I may not get

far with sentimentality." But it was only a momentary thought. I swear

she really did interest me. Besides, I was exhausted and moody. And

cunning so easily goes hand-in-hand with feeling.

"Who denies it!" I hastened to answer. "Anything may happen. I am

convinced that some one has wronged you, and that you are more sinned

against than sinning. Of course, I know nothing of your story, but it's

not likely a girl like you has come here of her own inclination...."

"A girl like me?" she whispered, hardly audibly; but I heard it.

Damn it all, I was flattering her. That was horrid. But perhaps it was a

good thing.... She was silent.

"See, Liza, I will tell you about myself. If I had had a home from

childhood, I shouldn't be what I am now. I often think that. However bad

it may be at home, anyway they are your father and mother, and not

enemies, strangers. Once a year at least, they'll show their love of

you. Anyway, you know you are at home. I grew up without a home; and

perhaps that's why I've turned so ... unfeeling."

I waited again. "Perhaps she doesn't understand," I thought, "and,

indeed, it is absurd--it's moralizing."

"If I were a father and had a daughter, I believe I should love my

daughter more than my sons, really," I began indirectly, as though

talking of something else, to distract her attention. I must confess I

blushed.

"Why so?" she asked.

Ah! so she was listening!

"I don't know, Liza. I knew a father who was a stern, austere man, but

used to go down on his knees to his daughter, used to kiss her hands,

her feet, he couldn't make enough of her, really. When she danced at

parties he used to stand for five hours at a stretch, gazing at her. He

was mad over her: I understand that! She would fall asleep tired at

night, and he would wake to kiss her in her sleep and make the sign of

the cross over her. He would go about in a dirty old coat, he was stingy

to every one else, but would spend his last penny for her, giving her

expensive presents, and it was his greatest delight when she was pleased

with what he gave her. Fathers always love their daughters more than the

mothers do. Some girls live happily at home! And I believe I should

never let my daughters marry."

"What next?" she said, with a faint smile.

"I should be jealous, I really should. To think that she should kiss any

one else! That she should love a stranger more than her father! It's

painful to imagine it. Of course, that's all nonsense, of course every

father would be reasonable at last. But I believe before I should let

her marry, I should worry myself to death; I should find fault with all

her suitors. But I should end by letting her marry whom she herself

loved. The one whom the daughter loves always seems the worst to the

father, you know. That is always so. So many family troubles come from

that."

"Some are glad to sell their daughters, rather than marrying them

honourably."

Ah, so that was it!

"Such a thing, Liza, happens in those accursed families in which there

is neither love nor God," I retorted warmly, "and where there is no

love, there is no sense either. There are such families, it's true, but

I am not speaking of them. You must have seen wickedness in your own

family, if you talk like that. Truly, you must have been unlucky. H'm!

... that sort of thing mostly comes about through poverty."

"And is it any better with the gentry? Even among the poor, honest

people live happily."

"H'm ... yes. Perhaps. Another thing, Liza, man is fond of reckoning up

his troubles, but does not count his joys. If he counted them up as he

ought, he would see that every lot has enough happiness provided for it.

And what if all goes well with the family, if the blessing of God is

upon it, if the husband is a good one, loves you, cherishes you, never

leaves you! There is happiness in such a family! Even sometimes there is

happiness in the midst of sorrow; and indeed sorrow is everywhere. If

you marry _you will find out for yourself_. But think of the first years

of married life with one you love: what happiness, what happiness there

sometimes is in it! And indeed it's the ordinary thing. In those early

days even quarrels with one's husband end happily. Some women get up

quarrels with their husbands just because they love them. Indeed, I knew

a woman like that: she seemed to say that because she loved him, she

would torment him and make him feel it. You know that you may torment a

man on purpose through love. Women are particularly given to that,

thinking to themselves 'I will love him so, I will make so much of him

afterwards, that it's no sin to torment him a little now.' And all in

the house rejoice in the sight of you, and you are happy and gay and

peaceful and honourable.... Then there are some women who are jealous.

If he went off anywhere--I knew one such woman, she couldn't restrain

herself, but would jump up at night and run off on the sly to find out

where he was, whether he was with some other woman. That's a pity. And

the woman knows herself it's wrong, and her heart fails her and she

suffers, but she loves--it's all through love. And how sweet it is to

make it up after quarrels, to own herself in the wrong or to forgive

him! And they are both so happy all at once--as though they had met

anew, been married over again; as though their love had begun afresh.

And no one, no one should know what passes between husband and wife if

they love one another. And whatever quarrels there may be between them

they ought not to call in their own mother to judge between them and

tell tales of one another. They are their own judges. Love is a holy

mystery and ought to be hidden from all other eyes, whatever happens.

That makes it holier and better. They respect one another more, and much

is built on respect. And if once there has been love, if they have been

married for love, why should love pass away? Surely one can keep it! It

is rare that one cannot keep it. And if the husband is kind and

straightforward, why should not love last? The first phase of married

love will pass, it is true, but then there will come a love that is

better still. Then there will be the union of souls, they will have

everything in common, there will be no secrets between them. And once

they have children, the most difficult times will seem to them happy, so

long as there is love and courage. Even toil will be a joy, you may deny

yourself bread for your children and even that will be a joy. They will

love you for it afterwards; so you are laying by for your future. As the

children grow up you feel that you are an example, a support for them;

that even after you die your children will always keep your thoughts and

feelings, because they have received them from you, they will take on

your semblance and likeness. So you see this is a great duty. How can it

fail to draw the father and mother nearer? People say it's a trial to

have children. Who says that? It is heavenly happiness! Are you fond of

little children, Liza? I am awfully fond of them. You know--a little

rosy baby boy at your bosom, and what husband's heart is not touched,

seeing his wife nursing his child! A plump little rosy baby, sprawling

and snuggling, chubby little hands and feet, clean tiny little nails, so

tiny that it makes one laugh to look at them; eyes that look as if they

understand everything. And while it sucks it clutches at your bosom with

its little hand, plays. When its father comes up, the child tears itself

away from the bosom, flings itself back, looks at its father, laughs, as

though it were fearfully funny and falls to sucking again. Or it will

bite its mother's breast when its little teeth are coming, while it

looks sideways at her with its little eyes as though to say, 'Look, I am

biting!' Is not all that happiness when they are the three together,

husband, wife and child? One can forgive a great deal for the sake of

such moments. Yes, Liza, one must first learn to live oneself before one

blames others!"

"It's by pictures, pictures like that one must get at you," I thought to

myself, though I did speak with real feeling, and all at once I flushed

crimson. "What if she were suddenly to burst out laughing, what should I

do then?" That idea drove me to fury. Towards the end of my speech I

really was excited, and now my vanity was somehow wounded. The silence

continued. I almost nudged her.

"Why are you----" she began and stopped. But I understood: there was a

quiver of something different in her voice, not abrupt, harsh and

unyielding as before, but something soft and shamefaced, so shamefaced

that I suddenly felt ashamed and guilty.

"What?" I asked, with tender curiosity.

"Why, you...."

"What?"

"Why, you ... speak somehow like a book," she said, and again there was

a note of irony in her voice.

That remark sent a pang to my heart. It was not what I was expecting.

I did not understand that she was hiding her feelings under irony, that

this is usually the last refuge of modest and chaste-souled people when

the privacy of their soul is coarsely and intrusively invaded, and that

their pride makes them refuse to surrender till the last moment and

shrink from giving expression to their feelings before you. I ought to

have guessed the truth from the timidity with which she had repeatedly

approached her sarcasm, only bringing herself to utter it at last with

an effort. But I did not guess, and an evil feeling took possession of

me.

"Wait a bit!" I thought.

VII

"Oh, hush, Liza! How can you talk about being like a book, when it makes

even me, an outsider, feel sick? Though I don't look at it as an

outsider, for, indeed, it touches me to the heart.... Is it possible, is

it possible that you do not feel sick at being here yourself? Evidently

habit does wonders! God knows what habit can do with any one. Can you

seriously think that you will never grow old, that you will always be

good-looking, and that they will keep you here for ever and ever? I say

nothing of the loathsomeness of the life here.... Though let me tell you

this about it--about your present life, I mean; here though you are

young now, attractive, nice, with soul and feeling, yet you know as soon

as I came to myself just now I felt at once sick at being here with you!

One can only come here when one is drunk. But if you were anywhere else,

living as good people live, I should perhaps be more than attracted by

you, should fall in love with you, should be glad of a look from you,

let alone a word; I should hang about your door, should go down on my

knees to you, should look upon you as my betrothed and think it an

honour to be allowed to. I should not dare to have an impure thought

about you. But here, you see, I know that I have only to whistle and you

have to come with me whether you like it or not. I don't consult your

wishes, but you mine. The lowest labourer hires himself as a workman but

he doesn't make a slave of himself altogether; besides, he knows that he

will be free again presently. But when are you free? Only think what you

are giving up here? What is it you are making a slave of? It is your

soul, together with your body; you are selling your soul which you have

no right to dispose of! You give your love to be outraged by every

drunkard! Love! But that's everything, you know, it's a priceless

diamond, it's a maiden's treasure, love--why, a man would be ready to

give his soul, to face death to gain that love. But how much is your

love worth now? You are sold, all of you, body and soul, and there is no

need to strive for love when you can have everything without love. And

you know there is no greater insult to a girl than that, do you

understand? To be sure, I have heard that they comfort you, poor fools,

they let you have lovers of your own here. But you know that's simply a

farce, that's simply a sham, it's just laughing at you, and you are

taken in by it! Why, do you suppose he really loves you, that lover of

yours? I don't believe it. How can he love you when he knows you may be

called away from him any minute? He would be a low fellow if he did!

Will he have a grain of respect for you? What have you in common with

him? He laughs at you and robs you--that is all his love amounts to! You

are lucky if he does not beat you. Very likely he does beat you, too.

Ask him, if you have got one, whether he will marry you. He will laugh

in your face, if he doesn't spit in it or give you a blow--though maybe

he is not worth a bad halfpenny himself. And for what have you ruined

your life, if you come to think of it? For the coffee they give you to

drink and the plentiful meals? But with what object are they feeding you

up? An honest girl couldn't swallow the food, for she would know what

she was being fed for. You are in debt here, and, of course, you will

always be in debt, and you will go on in debt to the end, till the

visitors here begin to scorn you. And that will soon happen, don't rely

upon your youth--all that flies by express train here, you know. You

will be kicked out. And not simply kicked out; long before that she'll

begin nagging at you, scolding you, abusing you, as though you had not

sacrificed your health for her, had not thrown away your youth and your

soul for her benefit, but as though you had ruined her, beggared her,

robbed her. And don't expect any one to take your part: the others, your

companions, will attack you, too, to win her favour, for all are in

slavery here, and have lost all conscience and pity here long ago. They

have become utterly vile, and nothing on earth is viler, more loathsome,

and more insulting than their abuse. And you are laying down everything

here, unconditionally, youth and health and beauty and hope, and at

twenty-two you will look like a woman of five-and-thirty, and you will

be lucky if you are not diseased, pray to God for that! No doubt you are

thinking now that you have a gay time and no work to do! Yet there is no

work harder or more dreadful in the world or ever has been. One would

think that the heart alone would be worn out with tears. And you won't

dare to say a word, not half a word when they drive you away from here;

you will go away as though you were to blame. You will change to another

house, then to a third, then somewhere else, till you come down at last

to the Haymarket. There you will be beaten at every turn; that is good

manners there, the visitors don't know how to be friendly without

beating you. You don't believe that it is so hateful there? Go and look

for yourself some time, you can see with your own eyes. Once, one New

Year's Day, I saw a woman at a door. They had turned her out as a joke,

to give her a taste of the frost because she had been crying so much,

and they shut the door behind her. At nine o'clock in the morning she

was already quite drunk, dishevelled, half-naked, covered with bruises,

her face was powdered, but she had a black eye, blood was trickling from

her nose and her teeth; some cabman had just given her a drubbing. She

was sitting on the stone steps, a salt fish of some sort was in her

hand; she was crying, wailing something about her luck and beating with

the fish on the steps, and cabmen and drunken soldiers were crowding in

the doorway taunting her. You don't believe that you will ever be like

that? I should be sorry to believe it, too, but how do you know; maybe

ten years, eight years ago that very woman with the salt fish came here

fresh as a cherub, innocent, pure, knowing no evil, blushing at every

word. Perhaps she was like you, proud, ready to take offence, not like

the others; perhaps she looked like a queen, and knew what happiness was

in store for the man who should love her and whom she should love. Do

you see how it ended? And what if at that very minute when she was

beating on the filthy steps with that fish, drunken and

dishevelled--what if at that very minute she recalled the pure early

days in her father's house, when she used to go to school and the

neighbour's son watched for her on the way, declaring that he would love

her as long as he lived, that he would devote his life to her, and when

they vowed to love one another for ever and be married as soon as they

were grown up! No, Liza, it would be happy for you if you were to die

soon of consumption in some corner, in some cellar like that woman just

now. In the hospital, do you say? You will be lucky if they take you,

but what if you are still of use to the madam here? Consumption is a

queer disease, it is not like fever. The patient goes on hoping till the

last minute and says he is all right. He deludes himself. And that just

suits your madam. Don't doubt it, that's how it is; you have sold your

soul, and what is more you owe money, so you daren't say a word. But

when you are dying, all will abandon you, all will turn away from you,

for then there will be nothing to get from you. What's more, they will

reproach you for cumbering the place, for being so long over dying.

However you beg you won't get a drink of water without abuse: 'Whenever

are you going off, you nasty hussy, you won't let us sleep with your

moaning, you make the gentlemen sick.' That's true, I have heard such

things said myself. They will thrust you dying into the filthiest corner

in the cellar--in the damp and darkness; what will your thoughts be,

lying there alone? When you die, strange hands will lay you out, with

grumbling and impatience; no one will bless you, no one will sigh for

you, they only want to get rid of you as soon as may be; they will buy a

coffin, take you to the grave as they did that poor woman to-day, and

celebrate your memory at the tavern. In the grave sleet, filth, wet

snow--no need to put themselves out for you--'Let her down, Vanuha; it's

just like her luck--even here, she is head-foremost, the hussy. Shorten

the cord, you rascal.' 'It's all right as it is.' 'All right, is it?

Why, she's on her side! She was a fellow-creature, after all! But, never

mind, throw the earth on her.' And they won't care to waste much time

quarrelling over you. They will scatter the wet blue clay as quick as

they can and go off to the tavern ... and there your memory on earth

will end; other women have children to go to their graves, fathers,

husbands. While for you neither tear, nor sigh, nor remembrance; no one

in the whole world will ever come to you, your name will vanish from the

face of the earth--as though you had never existed, never been born at

all! Nothing but filth and mud, however you knock at your coffin lid at

night, when the dead arise, however you cry: 'Let me out, kind people,

to live in the light of day! My life was no life at all; my life has

been thrown away like a dish-clout; it was drunk away in the tavern at

the Haymarket; let me out, kind people, to live in the world again.'"

And I worked myself up to such a pitch that I began to have a lump in my

throat myself, and ... and all at once I stopped, sat up in dismay, and

bending over apprehensively, began to listen with a beating heart. I had

reason to be troubled.

I had felt for some time that I was turning her soul upside down and

rending her heart, and--and the more I was convinced of it, the more

eagerly I desired to gain my object as quickly and as effectually as

possible. It was the exercise of my skill that carried me away; yet it

was not merely sport....