Notes from Underground

FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND

NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND

INTRODUCTION

LEV SHESTOV

SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY

CHRONOLOGY

1821

1823-31

1825

1831

1833-7

1834

1835

1836

1837

1839

1840

1841

1842

1843).

1845

1846

1847

1848

1849

1850

1851

1853-6

1855

1857

1859

1860

1861

1862.

1863

1864

1865

1865-9

1866

1867

1868

1869

1870

1871

1871-2

1872

1875

1875-8

1876

1878

1879

1880

1881

I*

II

III

IV

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

PART TWO

I

II

III

IV

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

NOTES

18. "To domestic animals" (French).

FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY

Notes from Underground

Translated from the Russian by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volkhonsky with an Introduction by Richard Pevear

Copyright © 1993 by Richard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky

ISBN: 1400041910

NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND

CONTENTS

Introduction - ix

Select Bibliography - xxiii

Chronology - xxvi

NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND

Part One Underground - 3

Part Two Apropos of the Wet Snow - 39

Notes - 121

INTRODUCTION

The ellipsis after the opening sentence of Notes from Underground is like a window affording us a first glimpse of one of the most remarkable characters in literature, one who has been placed among the bearers of modern consciousness alongside Don Quixote, Hamlet, and Faust. What we see is a man glancing at us out of the corner of his eye, very much aware of us as he speaks, very much concerned with the impression his words are making. In fact, we do not really see him, we only hear him, and not through anything so respectable as a window, but through a crack in the floorboards. He addresses the world from that crack; he has also spent a lifetime listening at it. Everything that can be said about him, and more particularly against him, he already knows; he has, as he says in a typical paradox, overheard it all, anticipated it all, invented it all. "I am a sick man… I am a wicked man." In the space of that pause Dostoevsky introduces the unifying idea of his tale: the instability, the perpetual "dialectic" of isolated consciousness. The nameless hero - nameless "because T is all of us," the critic Viktor Shklovsky suggested - is, like so many of Dostoevsky's heroes, a writer. Not a professional man of letters (none of Dostoevsky's "writers" is that), but one whom circumstances have led or forced to take up the pen, to try to fix something in words, for his own sake first of all, but also with an eye for some indeterminate others - readers, critics, judges, fellow creatures. He is a passionate amateur, a condition that marks the style and structure as well as the content of the book. Where the master practitioner would present us with a seamless and harmonious verbal construction, the man from underground, who literally cannot contain himself, breaks decorum all the time, interrupts himself, comments on his own intentions, defies his readers, polemicizes with other writers. The literariness of his "notes" and the unliterariness of his style are both results of his "heightened consciousness," his hostility to and dependence upon the words of others. Thus the unifying idea of Notes from Underground, embodied in the person of its narrator, is dramatized in the process of its writing. The controlling art of Dostoevsky remains at a second remove.

This man who may be trying to write his way out of the underground, originally read his way into it. "At home," he says, "I mainly used to read. I wished to stifle with external sensations all that was ceaselessly boiling up inside me. And among external sensations the only one possible for me was reading. Reading was, of course, a great help - it stirred, delighted, and tormented me." That was during his youth, in the 1840s. He read, he dreamed, and he engaged in "little debauches." These were his three diversions, and it is interesting that he puts them together. What did he read? At various points in his account he compares himself with Byron's Manfred, with characters from Pushkin and Lermontov - all romantic figures. He refers more than once to Rousseau. Farther in the background, but looming large, stand Kant and Schiller, representing German philosophical and poetic idealism, summoned up in the phrase "the beautiful and lofty," which had become a commonplace of Russian liberal criticism of the 1840s. His reading was, in other words, that of the typical educated Russian of the time. Reading nourished his dreaming, and even found its way into his little debauches "in exactly the proportion required for a good sauce." And so it was that he evaded the petty squalor and inner anguish of his daily life; so it was, as he confesses sixteen years later, that he "defaulted on his life through moral corruption in a corner." One main thematic strand of the book is the underground man's denunciation of the estranging and vitiating influence of books, so that from his perspective of the 1860s, when he begins to write, the word "literary" has become one of the most sarcastic he can utter. To all the features for an antihero purposely collected in Motes from Underground there are added all the features for an antibook.

That book is the underground man's book, not Dostoevsky's, though the two coincide almost word for word. Indeed, the sharp personality of the underground man, the intensity of his attacks and confessions, the apparent lack of critical distance in the first person narrative, have given many readers the impression that they have to do here with a direct statement of Dostoevsky's own ideological position, and much commentary has been written on the book in that light. Much has also been said about the tragic (or at least "terribly sad") essence of its vision. Both notions seem to overlook the humor

– stylistic, situational, polemical, parodic - that pervades Notes from Underground. Dostoevsky certainly put a lot of himself into the situations and emotions of his narrator; what distinguishes his book from the narrator's is an extra dimension of laughter. Laughter creates the distance that allows for recognition, without which the book might be a tract, a case history, a cry of despair, anything you like, but not a work of art. Notes from Underground has been called the prelude to the great novels of Dostoevsky's last period, and it is so partly because here Dostoevsky first perfected the method of tonal distancing that enabled him to present characters and events simultaneously from different points of view, to counter empathy with intellection.

The underground man's book is a personal outpouring

– harsh, self-accusatory, defiant, negligently written, loosely structured - a long diatribe, followed by some avowedly random recollections ("I will not introduce any order or system. Whatever I recall, I will write down.") It claims to be genuine, if artistically crude. "No longer literature, but corrective punishment," the narrator finally decides. Nietzsche thought he could hear "the voice of the blood" in it.

Dostoevsky's novel is something quite different. It is a tragicomedy of ideas, admirable for the dramatic expressiveness of its prose, which gives subtle life to this voice from under the floorboards with all its withholdings, second thoughts, loopholes, special pleadings; and admirable, too, for the dynamics of its composition, the interplay of its two parts, which represent two historical moments, two "climates of opinion," as well as two images of the man from underground, revealed by different means and with very different tonalities.

The two parts of Notes from Underground were first published in 1864, in the January and April issues of Epoch, a magazine edited by Dostoevsky's brother Mikhail, the successor to their magazine Time, which had been suppressed by the censors in

1863. The note Dostoevsky added to the first part insists on the social and typical, as opposed to personal and psychological, aspects of the man from underground: "such persons as the writer of such notes not only may but even must exist in our society, taking into consideration the circumstances under which our society has generally been formed." His view of those circumstances would have been familiar to readers of his articles in Time over the previous few years, particularly "Winter Notes on Summer Impressions," an account of his first trip to Europe in 1862, which had appeared in the February and March issues of Time for 1863. There he discussed Russia's "captivation" with the West:

Why, everything, unquestionably almost everything that we have -of development, science, art, civic-mindedness, humanity, everything, everything comes from there - from that same land of holy wonders! Why, our entire life, even from very childhood itself, has been set up along European lines.

Russian society had been formed by decades of imported "development" and "enlightenment," words that acquire a sharply ironic inflection in Dostoevsky's later work. Some sources of this ideology have already been mentioned - Rousseau, Schiller, Kant. To this list may be added the names of such French social romantics as Victor Hugo, Eugene Sue, George Sand, and the Utopian socialists Fourier and Saint-Simon. In Dostoevsky: The Stir of Liberation, Joseph Frank points to the presence of these "influences" in the theme of the redeemed prostitute, which was a favorite among Russian liberals of the 1840s (the poet Nikolai Nekrasov, for example), and which Dostoevsky parodies brilliantly in the second part of Notes from Underground. The parody is, of course, Dostoevsky's, not the underground man's. The latter, on the contrary, had taken all these influences to heart; they had made him into a "developed man of the nineteenth century," a man of "heightened consciousness." It was the attempt to live by them that drove him "underground." In the social displacement of an imported culture, Dostoevsky perceived a more profound human displacement, a spiritual void filled with foreign content.

A second theme from "Winter Notes" reappears in Motes from Underground - that of the "crystal palace," which is as central to the polemics of the novel's first part as the redeemed prostitute is to the parody of the second. The crystal palace in the travel article is the cast-iron and glass exhibition hall built in London in 1851 for the Great Exhibition. It appeared to Dostoevsky as a terrifying structure, a symbol of false unity, of "the full triumph of Baal, the ultimate organization of an anthill." The tones in which he speaks of it will be echoed almost twenty years later by the Grand Inquisitor in The Brothers Karamazov:

But if you saw how proud is that mighty spirit who created this colossal setting and how proudly convinced this spirit is of its victory and of its triumph, then you would shudder for its pride, obstinacy, and blindness, but you would shudder also for those over whom this proud spirit hovers and reigns.

This mighty spirit is the spirit of industrial capitalism, and the crystal palace is its temple. In Motes from Underground the same structure comes to stand for the future organization of socialism. It remains an image of false unity, but is denounced in rather different terms: the underground man puts his tongue out at it, calls it a tenement house and a chicken coop.

The two time periods of the novel represent two stages in the evolution of the Russian intelligentsia: the sentimental, literary 1840s and the rational and utilitarian 1860s; the time of the liberals and the time of the nihilists. One of Dostoevsky's constant preoccupations in his later work was the responsibility of the liberal generation for the emergence of the nihilists, an idea he embodied literally in the novel Demons (1871-72) in the figures of the dreamy individualist Stepan Verkhovensky and his deadly utilitarian son Pyotr. In Motes from Underground the same evolution is reflected in the mind of one man: the polemicist of the first part grew out of the defeated dreamer of the second. The inverted time sequence of the two parts seems to lead us to this discovery.

However, the underground man is hardly a typical "rational egoist," any more than he had been a typical romantic. There is a quality in him that sets him apart, which he himself defines on the last page of the book: "Excuse me, gentlemen, but I am not justifying myself with this allishness. As far as I myself am concerned, I have merely carried to an extreme in my life what you have not dared to carry even halfway." Submitted to the testing of full acceptance, the testing of this irreducible human existence, the "heightened consciousness" of the rationalist, like the sentimental impulses of the romantic, runs into disastrous and comic reversals. Hence the paradoxically defiant double-mindedness of the underground man, and his intransitive dilemma.

The "gentlemen" he addresses throughout his notes, when they are not a more indeterminate "you," are typical intellectuals of the 1860s. More specifically, they are presumed to be followers of the writer Nikolai Gavrilovich Chernyshevsky, the chief spokesman and ideologist of the young radicals. N. G. Chernyshevsky was the author of a number of critical works, notably The Anthropological Principle in Philosophy (1860), in which he propounded the abovementioned doctrine of "rational egoism," an adaptation of the "enlightened self-interest" of the English utilitarians. His programmatic Utopian novel What Is to Be Done?, written in prison following his arrest in 1862 for revolutionary activities and published in 1863, immediately became a manual for social activists. Several decades later, V. I. Lenin, who dubbed Dostoevsky a "superlatively bad" writer, could testify that What Is to Be Done? had made him into a confirmed revolutionary. The nature of Chernyshevsky's hero and his ideas may be deduced from the following passage:

Yes, I will always do what I want. I will never sacrifice anything, not even a whim, for the sake of something I do not desire. What I want, with all my heart, is to make people happy. In this lies my happiness. Mine! Can you hear that, you, in your underground hole?

This is the voice of the healthy rational egoist, the ingenuous man of action. Dostoevsky took up the challenge.

Though Chernyshevsky is not mentioned by name in Motes from Underground, his theories, and in particular his novel, are the most immediate targets both of the underground man's diatribes and of Dostoevsky's subtler, more penetrating parody. Dostoevsky had intended originally to write a critical review of What Is to Be Done? for the first issue of Epoch, but was unable to produce anything. The strained conditions of his personal life at that time and the problems of starting the new magazine do not explain the difficulty he faced. Evidently it was not enough for him simply to counter Chernyshevsky's arguments; more was at stake than a conflict of ideas - there was a question of the very nature of the human being who was to be so forcibly made happy. Dostoevsky's response had to take artistic form. He was challenged to reveal "the man in man," precisely in and through the ideas of the new radicals themselves.

The counterarguments of the "gentlemen" in the later chapters of the first part, for example, are clearly Cherny-shevskian, based on his notions of normal interests, natural law, and the denial of free will. The crystal palace, too, in its reappearance here, has been transmuted by its passage through "The Fourth Dream of Vera Pavlovna," the section of What Is to Be Done? that presents Chernyshevsky's vision of mankind made happy. The pseudoscientific terms and even a certain clumsy use of parentheses, as Joseph Frank has shown, are the narrator's deliberate mockery of Chernyshevsky's writing. Frank has also shown that the attack is not limited to Part One: two of the three main episodes in the second part of Notes - the episode of the bumped officer and the episode with the prostitute Liza - are in fact parodic developments of episodes from Chernyshevsky's novel. The latter episode, which is the climactic episode of the novel as a whole, gives fullest play to Dostoevsky's criticism through comic reversal. But the reversal is not a simple contrary; it is the puncturing of a literary cliche by a truth drawn from a different source, from what the narrator comes in the end to call "living life."

Dostoevsky's reply to Chernyshevsky is both ideological and artistic, the implication being that the two are inseparable, and the further implication being that the indispensable unity of artistic form reflects a more primordial unity of the living person. Those who favored Chernyshevsky's ideas, however, were able to separate them from the form of their expression. Even the conscientious old radical Alexander Herzen, though he found Chernyshevsky's novel "vilely written" and could not help noting that it ends with "a phalanstery in a brothel," immediately added: "On the other hand there is much that is good and healthy." (An interesting pair of adjectives when one recalls the opening lines of Motes.) These remarks of Herzen's are passed on to us by Fyodor Godunov-Cherdyntsev, the narrator of Vladimir Nabokov's The Gift (1938), whose monograph on the life of Chernyshevsky makes up the fourth of the novel's five chapters. Godunov-Cherdyntsev notes a certain "fatal inner contradiction" in Chernyshevsky's own reflections on art, what he describes as the dualism of the monist Chernyshevsky's aesthetics - where "form" and "content" are distinct, with "content" pre-eminent - or, more exactly, with "form" playing the role of the soul and "content" the role of the body; and the muddle is augmented by the fact that this "soul" consists of mechanical components, since Chernyshevsky believed that the value of a work was not a qualitative but a quantitative concept, and that "if someone were to take some miserable, forgotten novel and carefully cull all its flashes of observation, he would collect a fair number of sentences that would not differ in worth from those constituting the pages of works we admire."

Indeed, there could hardly be a more thorough denial of artistic unity than this last quoted passage. The naive blithe-ness of its expression is characteristic of Chernyshevsky and thinkers like him (utilitarians, nihilists; then Lenin, Lunachar-sky, the theorists of "socialist realism"). It is defined by Nabokov's narrator in terms of a decomposition of the human person. The metaphor comes quite naturally; the aesthetic question immediately brings with it the human question - or, rather, they are the same.

As a writer and thinker, Chernyshevsky was the embodiment of what in Russian is called bezdarnost' - giftlessness - and was thus the perfect foil for that minutely observant, wondering, grateful, and form-revealing intelligence that Nabokov celebrates in The Gift. Giftlessness, as Dostoevsky feared and Nabokov knew, became the dominant style in Russia; it eventually seized power, and in the process of "making people happy" destroyed them by millions, leaving its vast motherland broken and desolate. "The triumph of materialism has abolished matter," the poet Andrei Bely said in the famine- ridden 1920s. Godunov-Cherdyntsev gives a more detailed formulation:

Our overall impression is that materialists of this type fell into a fatal error: neglecting the nature of the thing itself, they kept applying their most materialistic method merely to the relations between objects, to the void between objects and not to the objects themselves; i.e. they were the naivest metaphysicians precisely at that point where they most wanted to be standing on the ground.

A fatal error, a fatal contradiction. In this respect the greatest foresight was shown by long-eared Shigalyov, the radical theoretician in Dostoevsky's Demons: "I got entangled in my own data, and my conclusion directly contradicts the original idea I start from. Starting from unlimited freedom, I conclude with unlimited despotism. I will add, however, that apart from my solution to the social formula, there is no other." A direct line leads from metaphysical naivety to murder; a direct line leads from the anti-unity of utilitarian aesthetics to the false unity of the crystal palace. Dostoevsky perceived these relations more clearly than anyone else of his time. The perception coincided with, and in fact constituted, the maturity of his genius. He recognized that his opposition to the "Chernyshev-skians" could not be a struggle for domination, that what was in question was the complex reality of the human being, the whole person, the "thing itself," and that a true articulation of that reality could only come as the final "gift" of an artistic image. Mikhail Bakhtin noted in his study of Dostoevsky's poetics: "Artistic form, correctly understood, does not shape already prepared and found content, but rather permits content to be found and seen for the first time."

Hence the formal inventiveness of Notes from Underground: its striking language, unlike any literary prose ever written; its multiple and conflicting tonalities; the oddity of its reversed structure, which seems random but all at once reveals its deeper coherence - "chatter… resolved by an unexpected catastrophe," as Dostoevsky described it to his brother. ("All Dostoevsky's novels were written for the sake of the catastrophe," the critic Konstantin Mochulsky observed. "This is the law of the new 'expressive art' that he created. Only upon arriving at the finale do we understand the composition's perfection and the inexhaustible depth of its design.") The catastrophe that resolves Notes from Underground, with its resoundingly symbolic slamming door, is at the same time the moment of its origin. There, in a sudden confusion of tenses, the narrator cries out from the past into the future: "and never, never will I recall this moment with indifference." It is a fleeting moment, but it has determined the narrator's life and gives the edge of passion to his attack, his outburst, after all his years "underground." Coming at the end of the book, it sends us back to the beginning; thus the round of the underground man's ruminations is given form, and this whole "image" Dostoevsky holds up to us as a sign.

There may, however, have been a more directly opposing idea in the book as Dostoevsky originally wrote it, a sort of ideological climax in Part One to match the narrative climax in Part Two. When the first part appeared in Epoch, Dostoevsky complained in a letter to his brother that the tenth chapter -"the most important one, where the essential thought is expressed" - had been drastically cut by the censors. "Where I mocked at everything and sometimes blasphemed for form's sake - that is let pass; but where from all this I deduced the need of faith and Christ - that is suppressed."

The published version of the chapter, according to its author, was left "full of self-contradictions." Indeed, the reader will notice that in the third paragraph the "crystal edifice" ceases all at once to represent the ideas of the narrator's opponents and becomes instead something that he himself has possibly invented "as a result of certain old nonrational habits of our generation," something, he says, that "exists in my desires, or, better, exists as long as my desires exist." Obviously there have been major cuts here, removing the transition from one crystal edifice to the other - the word "mansion" being left us as a clue to its nature. We must try to imagine what would have transformed the "chicken coop" into a mansion, what would have made it more than "a phalanstery in a brothel," what would have turned it from an embodiment of the "laws of nature" into a contradiction of those very laws, and how from all this "the need of faith and Christ" was deduced. Dostoevsky never restored the cuts, as he never restored similarly drastic cuts in Crime and Punishment and Demons. Various explanations have been offered for this circumstance, some practical (lack of time, reluctance to confront the censors), others aesthetic (a recognition that the cuts were improvements). We do not know. But if we look at Dostoevsky's outlines of his ideas for novels in his notebooks and letters and then at the novels themselves, we will realize at least that the scheme barely hints at the surprises of its development. However it was that Dostoevsky "deduced the need for faith and Christ" in this chapter, we may be sure that he did not add it on as an external "ideological" precept, but drew it from the materials of the work itself.

The man from underground refutes his opponents with the results of having carried their own ideas to an extreme in his life. These results are himself. This self, however, as the reader discovers at once, is not a monolithic personality, but an inner plurality in constant motion. The plurality of the person, without any ideological additions, is already a refutation of l'homme de la nature et de la verite, the healthy, undivided man of action who was both the instrument and the object of radical social theory. Unity is not singularity but wholeness, a holding together, a harmony, all of which imply plurality. What the principle of this harmony is, the underground man cannot say; he has never found it. But he knows he has not found it; he knows, because his inner disharmony, his dividedness, which is the source of his suffering, is also the source of consciousness. Here we come upon one of the deep springs of Dostoevsky's later work - not his thinking (Dostoevsky was not a thinker, or, rather, he was a plurality of thinkers), but his artistic embodiment of reality. The one quality his negative characters share, and almost the only negative his world view allows, is inner fixity, a sort of death-in-life, which can take many forms and tonalities, from the broadly comic to the tragic, from the mechanical to the corpselike, from Pyotr Petrovich Luzhin to Nikolai Stavrogin. Inner movement, on the other hand, is always a condition of spiritual good, though it may also be a source of suffering, division, disharmony, in this life. What moves may always rise. Dostoevsky never portrays the completion of this movement; it extends beyond the end of the given book. We see it in characters like Raskolnikov and Mitya Karamazov, but first of all in the man from underground.

*

How much the mere tone of Notes from Underground is worth!

LEV SHESTOV

The philosopher Shestov, the critic Mochulsky, and most Russian readers agree that the style of Notes from Underground is, in Shestov's words, "very strange." Bakhtin describes it as "deliberately clumsy," though "subject to a certain artistic logic." A detailed discussion of the matter is not possible here, but we can offer a few comments on the style of our translation, pointing to qualities in the original that we have sought to keep in English for the sake of "mere tone," where they have been lost in earlier translations.

Though he likes to philosophize, the underground man has no use for philosophical terminology. When he picks up such words, it is to make fun of them; otherwise he couches his thought in the most blunt and even crude terms. An example is his use of the rare word khoteniye, a verbal noun formed from khotet', "to want." It is a simple, elemental word, with an almost physical, appetitive immediacy. The English equivalent is "wanting," which is how we have translated it. The primitive quality of the word appears to have alarmed our predecessors, who translate it as "wishing," "desire," "will," "intention," "choice," "volition," and render it variously at various times. The underground man invariably says "wanting" and "to want." He plays on the different uses of the word ("Who wants to want according to a little table?"); there is one passage running from the end of Chapter VII to the start of Chapter VIII in the first part where "want" and "wanting" appear eighteen times in two paragraphs - the stylistic point of which is blunted when other words are used.

Another of the underground man's words is vygoda, which means "profit" (gain, benefit), and only secondarily "advan- tage," as it is most often translated. "Profit" has very nearly the same range of uses in English as vygoda has in Russian. It is also a direct, unambiguous word, with an almost tactile quality: you have an advantage, but you get a profit. And like vygoda, with its strongly accented first syllable, "profit" leaps from the mouth almost with the force of an expletive, quite unlike the more unctuous "advantage" or its Russian equivalent preimushchestvo. Again, the narrator insists on his word and plays with it. Thus we arrive at the full music of this underground oratorio:

And where did all these sages get the idea that man needs some normal, some virtuous wanting? What made them necessarily imagine that what man needs is necessarily a reasonably profitable wanting? Man needs only independent wanting, whatever this independence may cost and wherever it may lead.

Repetition is of the essence here. When the underground man speaks of consciousness and heightened consciousness, it is always the same word: "consciousness," not "intellectual activity" as one translator has it, not "awareness" as another offers, and never some mixture of the three. The editorial precept of avoiding repetitions, of gracefully varying one's vocabulary, cannot be applied to this writer. His writing is emphatic, heavy-handed, rude: "This is my wanting, this is my desire. You will scrape it out of me only when you change my desires." To translate the scullery verb v yskoblit' ("to scrape out") as "eradicate" or "expunge," as has been done, to exchange the "collar of lard" the narrator bestows on the wretched clerk in Part Two for one that is merely "greasy," is to chasten and thus distort the voice of this man who is nothing but a voice.

There is, however, one tradition of mistranslation attached to Motes from Underground that raises something more than a question of "mere tone." The second sentence of the book, Ya zloy chelovek, has most often been rendered as "I am a spiteful man." Zloy is indeed at the root of the Russian word for "spiteful" (zlobnyi), but it is a much broader and deeper word, meaning "wicked," "bad," "evil." The wicked witch in Russian folktales is zlaya ved'ma (zlaya being the feminine of zloy). The opposite of zloy is dobryi, "good," as in "good fairy" (dobraya feya). This opposition is of great importance for Notes from Underground; indeed it frames the book, from "I am a wicked man" at the start to the outburst close to the end: "They won't let me… I can't be… good!" We can talk forever about the inevitable loss of nuances in translating from Russian into English (or from any language into any other), but the translation of zloy as "spiteful" instead of "wicked" is not inevitable, nor is it a matter of nuance. It speaks for that habit of substituting the psychological for the moral, of interpreting a spiritual condition as a kind of behavior, which has so bedeviled our century, not least in its efforts to understand Dostoevsky. Besides, "wicked" has the lucky gift of picking up the internal rhyme in the first two sentences of the original.

Richard Pevear

SELECT BIBLIOGRAPHY

mikhail bakhtin, Problems of Dostoevsky's Poetics, edited and translated by Caryl Emerson, University of Minnesota Press, Minneapolis, 1985. The classic study of Dostoevsky's formal innovations and the place of his work in the traditions of Menippean satire and carnival humor. Joseph frank, Dostoevsky: The Stir of Liberation 1860-1863, Princeton University Press, Princeton and Oxford, 1986. Volume three of Frank's five-volume socio-cultural biography of Dostoevsky, covering the period of composition of Notes from Underground. rene girard, Resurrection from the Underground: Fedor Dostoevsky, translated by James G. Williams, Crossroad, New York, 1997. A translation of Dostoievski, du double a I'unite (Plon, Paris, 1963), especially interesting for its analysis of the erotic/mimetic aspects of Dostoevsky's work. Robert louis jackson, Dostoevsky's Underground Man in Russian Literature, Greenwood Publishers, Westport, CT, 1981. w. j. leatherbarrow, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Dostoevsky, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge and New York, 2002. A collection of essays by various hands dealing with Dostoevsky's works mainly in terms of their cultural context. olga meerson, Dostoevsky's Taboos, Studies of the Harriman Institute, Dresden University Press, Dresden-Munich, 1998. A penetrating study of the metapsychology of tabooing and the meanings of the unsaid in Dostoevsky. konstantin mochulsky, Dostoevsky, His Life and Work, translated by Michael A. Minihan, Princeton University Press, Princeton, 1967. The work of a distinguished emigre scholar, first published in 1947 and still the best one-volume critical biography of Dostoevsky. Harriet murav, Holy Foolishness: Dostoevsky's Novels and the Poetics of Cultural Critique, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA, 1992. Richard peace, Dostoevsky's "Notesfrom Underground": Critical Studies in Russian Literature, Bristol Classical Press, London, 1993. james p. scanlan, Dostoevsky the Thinker, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, NY, 2002. lev shestov, Dostoevsky, Tolstoy and Nietzsche, translated by Bernard Martin and Spencer Roberts, Ohio University Press, Athens, Ohio, 1967. Essays by one of the major Russian thinkers of the twentieth century. lev shestov, In Job's Balances, translated by Camilla Coventry and C. A. Macartney, J. M. Dent and Sons, London, 1932. Contains an important essay on Dostoevsky and Notes from Underground - "The Conquest of the Self-Evident." victor terras, Reading Dostoevsky, University of Wisconsin Press, Madison, WI, 1999. A summing up by one of the most important Dostoevsky scholars of our time.

CHRONOLOGY

DATE

AUTHOR'S LIFE

LITERARY CONTEXT

1821

Born in Moscow.

1823-31

Pushkin: Evgeny Onegin.

1825

1830

Stendhal: Le Rouge et le Noir.

1831

Hugo: Notre Dame de Paris.

1833-7

At school in Moscow.

1834

Family purchases estate of Darovoe.

Pushkin: The Queen of Spades. Sand: Jacques.

1835

Balzac: Le Pere Goriot.

1836

Gogol: The Government Inspector. Chaadaev: Philosophical Letters. Pushkin founds The Contemporary.

1837

Death of mother.

Enters St. Petersburg Academy of Military Engineering.

Dickens: Pickwick Papers. Death of Pushkin in duel.

1839

Death of father, assumed murdered by serfs.

Notes of the Fatherland founded by Andrey Kraevsky. Stendhal: La Chartreuse de Parme.

1840

Lermontov: A Hero of Our Time.

1841

Death of Lermontov in duel.

1842

Gogol: Dead Souls, Part 1, and

The Overcoat.

Sue: Les Mysteres de Paris (to

1843).

1844

Graduates, but resigns commission in order to pursue literary career.

Sue: Le Juif errant (to 1845).

1845

Completes Poor Folk - acclaimed by the critic Belinsky.

1846

Publication of Poor Folk and The Double.

Sand: La Mare au diable.

1847

Breaks with Belinsky. Joins Petrashevsky circle. "The Landlady," "A Novel in Nine Letters," "A Petersburg Chronicle".

Herzen: Who Is to Blame?

Herzen leaves Russia.

Goncharov: An Ordinary Story.

Thackeray: Vanity Fair

(to 1848).

Belinsky: Letter to Gogol.

1848

"A Faint Heart" and "White Nights."

Death of Belinsky.

NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND

DATE

AUTHOR'S LIFE

LITERARY CONTEXT

1849

Netochka Nezvanova. Arrested and imprisoned in Peter and Paul Fortress. Mock execution. Sentenced to hard labor and Siberian exile.

Dickens: David Copperfield (to 1850).

1850

Arrives at Omsk penal colony.

Turgenev: A Month in the Country. Herzen: From the Other Shore.

1851

1852

Tolstoy: Childhood. Turgenev: A Sportsman's Notebook. Death of Gogol.

1853-6

1854

Posted to Semipalatinsk.

1855

1856

Turgenev: Rudin. Aksakov: A Family Chronicle. Nekrasov: Poems.

1857

Marries Maria Dmitrievna Isaeva.

Flaubert: Madame Bovary. Baudelaire: Les Fleurs du mal.

1859

The Friend of the Family. Returns to St. Petersburg.

Turgenev: A Nest of Gentlefolk. Goncharov: Oblomov. Tolstoy: Family Happiness. Ostrovsky: The Storm. Darwin: The Origin of Species.

1860

Starts publication of House of the Dead.

Turgenev: On the Eve, First Love. George Eliot: The Mill on the Floss. Birth of Chekhov. Dickens: Great Expectations (to 1861).

1861

Time commences publication. The Insulted and Injured.

Herzen: My Past and Thoughts (to 1867).

1862.

Travels in Europe. Affair with Polina Suslova.

Turgenev: Fathers and Children. Hugo: Les Miserables. Chernyshevsky arrested.

1863

Further travel abroad. Time closed. Winter Notes on Summer Impressions.

Tolstoy: The Cossacks. Chernyshevsky: What Is to Be Done?

1864

Launch of Epoch. Death of wife and brother. Notes from Underground.

Nekrasov: Who Can Be Happy and Free in Russia? (to 1876). Dickens: Our Mutual Friend (to 1865).

1865

Epoch closes. Severe financial difficulties.

Leskov: Lady Macbeth of the Mtsensk District.

1865-9

Tolstoy: War and Peace.

NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND

DATE

AUTHOR'S LIFE

LITERARY CONTEXT

1866

Crime and Punishment. The Gambler.

The Contemporary and The Russian Word suppressed.

1867

Marries Anna Grigoryevna Snitkina. Flees abroad to escape creditors.

Turgenev: Smoke.

1868

The Idiot. Birth and death of daughter, Sonya. Visits Switzerland and Italy.

Gorky born.

1869

Birth of daughter Liubov.

Goncharov: The Precipice. Flaubert: L'Education sentimentale.

1870

The Eternal Husband.

Death of Dickens and Herzen.

1871

Returns to St. Petersburg. Birth of son, Fyodor.

Ostrovsky: The Forest.

1871-2

Demons (The Devils/ The Possessed),

1872

Summer in Staraia Russa -becomes normal summer residence. Becomes editor of The Citizen.

Leskov: Cathedral Folk. Marx's Das Kapital published in Russia. George Eliot: Middlemarch.

i873

Starts Diary of a Writer.

.874

Resigns from The Citizen. Seeks treatment for emphysema in Bad Ems.

1875

The Adolescent (A Raw Youth). Birth of son, Alexey.

Saltykov-Shchedrin: The

Golovlyovs (to 1880).

1875-8

Tolstoy: Anna Karenina.

1876

1877

Turgenev: Virgin Soil.

1878

Death of Alexey. Visits Optina monastery with Vladimir Solovyov.

1879

1879-80

The Brothers Karamazov.

Tolstoy's religious crisis, during which he writes A Confession.

1880

Speech at Pushkin celebrations in Moscow.

Death of Flaubert and George Eliot.

1881

Dies of lung hemorrhage. Buried at Alexander Nevsky Monastery, St. Petersburg.

James: The Portrait of a Lady.

NOTES FROM UNDERGROUND

PART ONE

UNDERGROUND

I*

I am a sick man…I am a wicked man. An unattractive man. I think my liver hurts. However, I don't know a fig about my sickness, and am not sure what it is that hurts me. I am not being treated and never have been, though I respect medicine and doctors. What's more, I am also superstitious in the extreme; well, at least enough to respect medicine. (I'm sufficiently educated not to be superstitious, but I am.) No, sir, I refuse to be treated out of wickedness. Now, you will certainly not be so good as to understand this. Well, sir, but I understand it. I will not, of course, be able to explain to you precisely who is going to suffer in this case from my wickedness; I know perfectly well that I will in no way "muck things up" for the doctors by not taking their treatment; I know better than anyone that by all this I am harming only myself and no one else. But still, if I don't get treated, it is out of wickedness. My liver hurts; well, then let it hurt even worse!

I've been living like this for a long time - about twenty years. I'm forty now. I used to be in the civil service; I no longer am. I was a wicked official. I was rude, and took pleasure in it. After all, I didn't accept bribes, so I had to reward myself *Both the author of the notes and the Notes themselves are, of course, fictional. Nevertheless, such persons as the writer of such notes not only may but even must exist in our society, taking into consideration the circumstances under which our society has generally been formed. I wished to bring before the face of the public, a bit more conspicuously than usual, one of the characters of a time recently passed. He is one representative of a generation that is still living out its life. In this fragment, entitled "Underground," this person introduces himself, his outlook, and seeks, as it were, to elucidate the reasons why he appeared and had to appear among us. In the subsequent fragment will come this person's actual "notes" about certain events in his life.

– Fyodor Dostoevsky at least with that. (A bad witticism, but I won't cross it out. I wrote it thinking it would come out very witty; but now, seeing for myself that I simply had a vile wish to swagger -I purposely won't cross it out!) When petitioners would come for information to the desk where I sat - I'd gnash my teeth at them, and felt an inexhaustible delight when I managed to upset someone. I almost always managed. They were timid people for the most part: petitioners, you know. But among the fops there was one officer I especially could not stand. He simply refused to submit and kept rattling his sabre disgustingly. I was at war with him over that sabre for a year and a half. In the end, I prevailed. He stopped rattling. However, that was still in my youth. But do you know, gentlemen, what was the main point about my wickedness? The whole thing precisely was, the greatest nastiness precisely lay in my being shamefully conscious every moment, even in moments of the greatest bile, that I was not only not a wicked but was not even an embittered man, that I was simply frightening sparrows in vain, and pleasing myself with it. I'm foaming at the mouth, but bring me some little doll, give me some tea with a bit of sugar, and maybe I'll calm down. I'll even wax tenderhearted, though afterwards I'll certainly gnash my teeth at myself and suffer from insomnia for a few months out of shame. Such is my custom.

And I lied about myself just now when I said I was a wicked official. I lied out of wickedness. I was simply playing around both with the petitioners and with the officer, but as a matter of fact I was never able to become wicked. I was conscious every moment of so very many elements in myself most opposite to that. I felt them simply swarming in me, those opposite elements. I knew they had been swarming in me all my life, asking to be let go out of me, but I would not let them, I would not, I purposely would not let them out. They tormented me to the point of shame; they drove me to convulsions, and - finally I got sick of them, oh, how sick I got! But do you not perhaps think, gentlemen, that I am now repenting of something before you, that I am asking your forgiveness for something?… I'm sure you think so… However, I assure you that it is all the same to me even if you do…

Not just wicked, no, I never even managed to become anything: neither wicked nor good, neither a scoundrel nor an honest man, neither a hero nor an insect. And now I am living out my life in my corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and utterly futile consolation that it is even impossible for an intelligent man seriously to become anything, and only fools become something. Yes, sir, an intelligent man of the nineteenth century must be and is morally obliged to be primarily a characterless being; and a man of character, an active figure - primarily a limited being. This is my forty-year-old conviction. I am now forty years old, and, after all, forty years - is a whole lifetime; after all, it's the most extreme old age. To live beyond forty is indecent, banal, immoral! Who lives beyond forty - answer me sincerely, honestly? I'll tell you who does: fools and scoundrels do. I'll say it in the faces of all the elders, all these venerable elders, all these silver-haired and sweet-smelling elders! I'll say it in the whole world's face! I have the right to speak this way, because I myself will live to be sixty. I'll live to be seventy! I'll live to be eighty!… Wait! let me catch my breath…

You no doubt think, gentlemen, that I want to make you laugh? Here, too, you're mistaken. I am not at all such a jolly man as you think, or as you possibly think; if, however, irritated by all this chatter (and I already feel you are irritated), you decide to ask me: what precisely am I? - then I will answer you: I am one collegiate assessor. 1 I served so as to have something to eat (but solely for that), and when last year one of my distant relations left me six thousand roubles in his will, I resigned at once and settled into my corner. I lived in this corner before as well, but now I've settled into it. My room is wretched, bad, on the edge of the city. My servant is a village woman, old, wicked from stupidity, and always bad-smelling besides. I'm told that the Petersburg climate is beginning to do me harm, and that with my negligible means life in Petersburg is very expensive. I know all that, I know it better than all these experienced and most wise counsellors and waggers of heads. 2 But I am staying in

Petersburg; I will not leave Petersburg! I will not leave because… Eh! but it's all completely the same whether I leave or not.

But anyhow: what can a decent man speak about with the most pleasure?

Answer: about himself.

So then I, too, will speak about myself.

II

I would now like to tell you, gentlemen, whether you do or do not wish to hear it, why I never managed to become even an insect. I'll tell you solemnly that I wanted many times to become an insect. But I was not deemed worthy even of that. I swear to you, gentlemen, that to be overly conscious is a sickness, a real, thorough sickness. For man's everyday use, ordinary human consciousness would be more than enough; that is, a half, a quarter of the portion that falls to the lot of a developed man in our unfortunate nineteenth century, who, on top of that, has the added misfortune of residing in Petersburg, the most abstract and intentional city on the entire globe. (Cities can be intentional or unintentional.) As much consciousness, for example, as that by which all so-called ingenuous people and active figures live would be quite enough. I'll bet you think I'm writing all this out of swagger, to be witty at the expense of active figures, and swagger of a bad tone besides, rattling my sabre like my officer. But, gentlemen, who can take pride in his sicknesses, and swagger about them besides?

Though - what am I saying? - everyone does it; it's their sicknesses that everyone takes pride in, and I, perhaps, more than anyone. Let us not argue; my objection was absurd. But all the same I am strongly convinced that not only too much consciousness but even any consciousness at all is a sickness. I stand upon it. But let us also leave that for a moment. Tell me this: why was it that, as if by design, in those same, yes, in those very same moments when I was most capable of being conscious of all the refinements of "everything beautiful and lofty," 3 as we once used to say, it happened that instead of being conscious I did such unseemly deeds, such deeds as… well, in short, as everyone does, perhaps, but which with me occurred, as if by design, precisely when I was most conscious that I ought not to be doing them at all? The more conscious I was of the good and of all this "beautiful and lofty," the deeper I kept sinking into my mire, and the more capable I was of getting completely stuck in it. But the main feature was that this was all in me not as if by chance, but as if it had to be so. As if it were my most normal condition and in no way a sickness or a blight, so that finally I lost any wish to struggle against this blight. I ended up almost believing (and maybe indeed believing) that this perhaps was my normal condition. But at first, in the beginning, how much torment I endured in this struggle! I did not believe that such things happened to others, and therefore kept it to myself all my life as a secret. I was ashamed (maybe I am ashamed even now); it reached the point with me where I would feel some secret, abnormal, mean little pleasure in returning to my corner on some most nasty Petersburg night and being highly conscious of having once again done a nasty thing that day, and again that what had been done could in no way be undone, and I would gnaw, gnaw at myself with my teeth, inwardly, secretly, tear and suck at myself until the bitterness finally turned into some shameful, accursed sweetness, and finally - into a decided, serious pleasure! Yes, a pleasure, a pleasure! I stand upon it. The reason I've begun to speak is that I keep wanting to find out for certain: do other people have such pleasures? I'll explain to you: the pleasure here lay precisely in the too vivid consciousness of one's own humiliation; in feeling that one had reached the ultimate wall; that, bad as it is, it cannot be otherwise; that there is no way out for you, that you will never change into a different person; that even if you had enough time and faith left to change yourself into something different, you probably would not wish to change; and even if you did wish it, you would still not do anything, because in fact there is perhaps nothing to change into. And chiefly, and finally, all this occurs according to the normal and basic laws of heightened consciousness and the inertia that follows directly from these laws, and consequently there is not only nothing you can do to change yourself, but there is simply nothing to do at all. So it turns out, for example, as a result of heightened consciousness: right, you're a scoundrel - as if it were a consolation for the scoundrel himself to feel that he is indeed a scoundrel. But enough… Eh, I've poured all that out, and what have I explained?… How explain this pleasure? But I will explain myself! I will carry through to the end! That is why I took a pen in my hands…

I have, for example, a terrible amour propre. I am as insecure and touchy as a hunchback or a dwarf, yet there have indeed been moments when if I had happened to be slapped, I might even have been glad of it. I say it seriously: surely I'd have managed to discover some sort of pleasure in that as well - the pleasure of despair, of course, but it is in despair that the most burning pleasures occur, especially when one is all too highly conscious of the hopelessness of one's position. And here, with this slap - you'll simply be crushed by the consciousness of what sort of slime you've been reduced to. But chiefly, however you shuffle, it still comes out that I always come out as the first to blame for everything and, what's most offensive, blamelessly to blame, according to the laws of nature, so to speak. I'm to blame, first, because I'm more intelligent than everyone around me. (I've always considered myself more intelligent than everyone around me, and, would you believe, have even felt slightly ashamed of it. At least I've somehow averted my eyes all my life, and never could look people straight in the face.) I'm to blame, finally, because even if there were any magnanimity in me, I would be the one most tormented by the consciousness of its utter futility. For I would surely be able to do nothing with my magnanimity: neither to forgive, because my offender might have hit me according to the laws of nature, and the laws of nature cannot be forgiven; nor to forget, because even though it's the laws of nature, it's still offensive. Finally, even if I should want to be altogether unmagnanimous, if, on the contrary,

I should wish to take revenge on my offender, I wouldn't be able to take revenge on anyone in any way, because I surely wouldn't dare to do anything even if I could. Why wouldn't I dare? About that I would like to say a couple of words in particular.

III

What happens, for example, with people who know how to take revenge and generally how to stand up for themselves? Once they are overcome, say, by vengeful feeling, then for the time there is simply nothing left in their whole being but this feeling. Such a gentleman just lunges straight for his goal like an enraged bull, horns lowered, and maybe only a wall can stop him. (Incidentally: before a wall, these gentlemen - that is, ingenuous people and active figures - quite sincerely fold. For them a wall is not a deflection, as it is, for example, for us, people who think and consequently do nothing; it is not a pretext for turning back, a pretext which our sort usually doesn't believe in but is always very glad to have. No, they fold in all sincerity. For them a wall possesses something soothing, morally resolving and final, perhaps even something mystical… But of the wall later.) Well, sirs, it is just such an ingenuous man that I regard as the real, normal man, the way his tender mother - nature - herself wished to see him when she so kindly conceived him on earth. I envy such a man to the point of extreme bile. He is stupid, I won't argue with you about that, but perhaps a normal man ought to be stupid, how do you know? Perhaps it's even very beautiful. And I am the more convinced of this, so to speak, suspicion, seeing that if, for example, one takes the antithesis of the normal man, that is, the man of heightened consciousness, who came, of course, not from the bosom of nature but from a retort (this is almost mysticism, gentlemen, but I suspect that, too), this retort man sometimes folds before his antithesis so far that he honestly regards himself, with all his heightened consciousness, as a mouse and not a man. A highly conscious mouse, perhaps, but a mouse all the same, whereas here we have a man, and consequently… and so on… And, above all, it is he, he himself, who regards himself as a mouse; no one asks him to; and that is an important point.

Let us now have a look at this mouse in action. Suppose, for example, that it, too, is offended (and it is almost always offended), and it, too, wishes to take revenge. For it may have stored up even more spite than l'homme de la nature et de la verite. 4 The nasty, base little desire to pay the offender back with the same evil may scratch still more nastily in it than in l'homme de la nature et de la verite, because l'homme de le nature et de la verite, with his innate stupidity, regards his revenge quite simply as justice; whereas the mouse, as a result of its heightened consciousness, denies it any justice. Things finally come down to the business itself, to the act of revenge itself. The wretched mouse, in addition to the one original nastiness, has already managed to fence itself about with so many other nastinesses in the form of questions and doubts; it has padded out the one question with so many unresolved questions that, willy-nilly, some fatal slops have accumulated around it, some stinking filth consisting of its dubieties, anxieties, and, finally, of the spit raining on it from the ingenuous figures who stand solemnly around it like judges and dictators, guffawing at it from all their healthy gullets. Of course, nothing remains for it but to wave the whole thing aside with its little paw and, with a smile of feigned contempt, in which it does not believe itself, slip back shamefacedly into its crack. There, in its loathsome, stinking underground, our offended, beaten-down, and derided mouse at once immerses itself in cold, venomous, and, above all, everlasting spite. For forty years on end it will recall its offense to the last, most shameful details, each time adding even more shameful details of its own, spitefully taunting and chafing itself with its fantasies. It will be ashamed of its fantasies, but all the same it will recall everything, go over everything, heap all sorts of figments on itself, under the pretext that they, too, could have happened, and forgive nothing. It may even begin to take revenge, but somehow in snatches, with piddling things, from behind the stove, incognito, believing neither in its right to revenge itself nor in the success of its vengeance, and knowing beforehand that it will suffer a hundred times more from all its attempts at revenge than will the object of its vengeance, who will perhaps not even scratch at the bite. On its deathbed it will again recall everything, adding the interest accumulated over all that time, and… But it is precisely in this cold, loathsome half-despair, half-belief, in this conscious burying oneself alive from grief for forty years in the underground, in this assiduously produced and yet somewhat dubious hopelessness of one's position, in all this poison of unsatisfied desires penetrating inward, in all this fever of hesitations, of decisions taken forever, and repentances coming again a moment later, that the very sap of that strange pleasure I was talking about consists. It is so subtle, sometimes so elusive of consciousness, that people who are even the slightest bit narrow-minded, or who simply have strong nerves, will not understand a single trace of it. "Perhaps," you will add, grinning, "those who have never been slapped will also not understand" - thereby politely hinting that I, too, may have experienced a slap in my life, and am therefore speaking as a connoisseur. I'll bet that's what you think. But calm yourselves, gentlemen, I have not received any slaps, though it's all quite the same to me whatever you may think about it. Perhaps I myself am sorry for having dealt out too few slaps in my life. But enough, not another word on this subject which you find so extremely interesting.

I calmly continue about people with strong nerves, who do not understand a certain refinement of pleasure. In the face of some mishaps, for example, these gentlemen may bellow at the top of their lungs like bulls, and let's suppose this brings them the greatest honor, but still, as I've already said, they instantly resign themselves before impossibility. Impossibility - meaning a stone wall? What stone wall? Well, of course, the laws of nature, the conclusions of natural science, mathematics. Once it's proved to you, for example, that you descended from an ape, there's no use making a wry face, just take it for what it is. Once it's proved to you that, essentially speaking, one little drop of your own fat should be dearer to you than a hundred thousand of your fellow men, and that in this result all so-called virtues and obligations and other ravings and prejudices will finally be resolved, go ahead and accept it, there's nothing to be done, because two times two is - mathematics. Try objecting to that. 5

"For pity's sake," they'll shout at you, "you can't rebel: it's two times two is four! Nature doesn't ask your permission; it doesn't care about your wishes, or whether you like its laws or not. You're obliged to accept it as it is, and consequently all its results as well. And so a wall is indeed a wall… etc., etc." My God, but what do I care about the laws of nature and arithmetic if for some reason these laws and two times two is four are not to my liking? To be sure, I won't break through such a wall with my forehead if I really have not got strength enough to do it, but neither will I be reconciled with it simply because I have a stone wall here and have not got strength enough.

As if such a stone wall were truly soothing and truly contained in itself at least some word on the world, solely by being two times two is four. Oh, absurdity of absurdities! Quite another thing is to understand all, to be conscious of all, all impossibilities and stone walls; not to be reconciled with a single one of these impossibilities and stone walls if you are loath to be reconciled; to reach, by way of the most inevitable logical combinations, the most revolting conclusions on the eternal theme that you yourself seem somehow to blame even for the stone wall, though once again it is obviously clear that you are in no way to blame; and in consequence of that, silently and impo-tently gnashing your teeth, to come to a voluptuous standstill in inertia, fancying that, as it turns out, there isn't even anyone to be angry with; that there is no object to be found, and maybe never will be; that it's all a sleight-of-hand, a stacked deck, a cheat, that it's all just slops - nobody knows what and nobody knows who, but in spite of all the uncertainties and stacked decks, it still hurts, and the more uncertain you are, the more it hurts!

IV

Ha, ha, ha! Next you'll be finding pleasure in a toothache!" you will exclaim, laughing. "And why not? There is also pleasure in a toothache," I will answer. I had a toothache for a whole month; I know there is. Here, of course, one does not remain silently angry, one moans; but these are not straightforward moans, they are crafty moans, and the craftiness is the whole point. These moans express the pleasure of the one who is suffering; if they did not give him pleasure, he wouldn't bother moaning. It's a good example, gentlemen, and I shall develop it. In these moans there is expressed, first, all the futility of our pain, so humiliating for our consciousness, and all the lawfulness of nature, on which, to be sure, you spit, but from which you suffer all the same, while it does not. There is expressed the consciousness that your enemy is nowhere to be found, and yet there is pain; the consciousness that, despite all possible Wagenheims, 6 you are wholly the slave of your teeth; that if someone wishes, your teeth will stop aching, and if not, they will go on aching for another three months; and that, finally, if you still do not agree, and protest even so, then the only consolation you have left is to whip yourself, or give your wall a painful beating with your fist, and decidedly nothing else. Well, sir, it is with these bloody offenses, with these mockeries from no one knows whom, that the pleasure finally begins, sometimes reaching the highest sensuality. I ask you, gentlemen: listen sometime to the moaning of an educated man of the nineteenth century who is suffering from a toothache - say, on the second or third day of his ailment, when he's beginning to moan not as he did on the first day, that is, not simply because he has a toothache, not like some coarse peasant, but like a man touched by development and European civilization, like a man who has "renounced the soil and popular roots," as they say nowadays. 7 His moans somehow turn bad, nastilv wicked, and continue for whole davs and nights. Yet he himself knows that his moans will be of no use to him; he knows better than anyone that he is only straining and irritating himself and others in vain; he knows that even the public before whom he is exerting himself, and his whole family, are already listening to him with loathing, do not believe even a pennyworth of it, and understand in themselves that he could moan differently, more simply, without roulades and flourishes, and that it's just from spite and craftiness that he is playing around like that. Now, it is in all these consciousnesses and disgraces that the sensuality consists. "So I'm bothering you, straining your hearts, not letting anyone in the house sleep. Don't sleep, then; you, too, should feel every moment that I have a toothache. For you I'm no longer a hero, as I once wished to appear, but simply a vile little fellow, a chenapan. 8 Well, so be it! I'm very glad you've gotten to the bottom of me. It's nasty for you listening to my mean little moans? Let it be nasty, then; here's an even nastier roulade for you…" You still don't understand, gentlemen? No, evidently one must attain a profundity of development and consciousness to understand all the curves of this sensuality! You're laughing? I'm very glad. To be sure, gentlemen, my jokes are in bad tone - uneven, confused, self-mistrustful. But that is simply because I don't respect myself. How can a man of consciousness have the slightest respect for himself?

V

No, how is it possible, how is it at all possible for a man to have the slightest respect for himself, if he has presumed to find pleasure even in the very sense of his own humiliation? I am not speaking this way now out of some cloying repentance. And, generally, I hated saying: "Forgive me, papa, I won't do it again" - not because I was incapable of saying it, but, on the contrary, perhaps precisely because I was all too capable of it. And how! As if on purpose, I used to bumble into it on occasions when I'd never thought or dreamed of doing anything wrong. That was the nastiest thing of all. And there I'd be again, waxing tenderhearted, repenting, shedding tears, and certainly hoodwinking myself, though I wasn't pretending in the least. It was my heart that somehow kept mucking things up… Here even the laws of nature could no longer be blamed, though still, throughout my life, the laws of nature have offended me constantly and more than anything else. It's nasty to look back on it all, and it was nasty then as well. For a minute or so later I'd be reasoning spitefully that it was all a lie, a lie, a loathsome, affected lie - that is, all these repentances, tenderheartednesses, all these vows of regeneration. And you ask why I twisted and tormented myself so? Answer: because it was just too boring to sit there with folded arms, that's why I'd get into such flourishes. Really, it was so. Observe yourselves more closely, gentlemen, and you'll understand that it is so. I made up adventures and devised a life for myself so as to live, at least somehow, a little. How many times it happened to me - well, say, for example, to feel offended, just so, for no reason, on purpose; and I'd know very well that I felt offended for no reason, that I was affecting it, but you can drive yourself so far that in the end, really, you do indeed get offended. Somehow all my life I've had an urge to pull such stunts, so that in the end I could no longer control myself. Another time, twice even, I decided to force myself to fall in love. And I did suffer, gentlemen, I assure you. Deep in one's soul it's hard to believe one is suffering, mockery is stirring there, but all the same I suffer, and in a real, honest-to-god way; I get jealous, lose my temper… And all that from boredom, gentlemen, all from boredom; crushed by inertia. For the direct, lawful, immediate fruit of consciousness is inertia - that is, a conscious sitting with folded arms. I've already mentioned this above. I repeat, I emphatically repeat: ingenuous people and active figures are all active simply because they are dull and narrow-minded. How to explain it? Here's how: as a consequence of their narrow-mindedness, they take the most immediate and secondary causes for the primary ones, and thus become convinced more quickly and easily than others that they have found an indisputable basis for their doings, and so they feel at ease; and that, after all, is the main thing. For in order to begin to act, one must first be completely at ease, so that no more doubts remain. Well, and how am I, for example, to set myself at ease? Where are the primary causes on which I can rest, where are my bases? Where am I going to get them? I exercise thinking, and, consequently, for me every primary cause immediately drags with it yet another, still more primary one, and so on ad infinitum. Such is precisely the essence of all consciousness and thought. So, once again it's the laws of nature. And what, finally, is the result? The same old thing. Remember: I was speaking just now about revenge. (You probably didn't grasp it.) I said: a man takes revenge because he finds justice in it. That means he has found a primary cause, a basis - namely, justice. So he is set at ease on all sides and, consequently, takes his revenge calmly and successfully, being convinced that he is doing an honest and just thing. Whereas I do not see any justice here, nor do I find any virtue in it, and, consequently, if I set about taking revenge, it will be solely out of wickedness. Wickedness could, of course, overcome everything, all my doubts, and thus could serve quite successfully in place of a primary cause, precisely in that it is not a cause. But what's to be done if there is also no wickedness in me? (I did begin with that just now.) The spite in me, again as a consequence of those cursed laws of consciousness, undergoes a chemical breakdown. Before your eyes the object vanishes, the reasons evaporate, the culprit is not to be found, the offense becomes not an offense but a fatum, something like a toothache, for which no one is to blame, and, consequently, what remains is again the same way out - that is, to give the wall a painful beating. And so you just wave it aside, because you haven't found the primary cause. But try getting blindly carried away by your feelings, without reasoning, without a primary cause, driving consciousness away at least for a time; start hating, or fall in love, only so as not to sit with folded arms. The day after tomorrow, at the very latest, you'll begin to despise yourself for having knowingly hoodwinked yourself. The result: a soap bubble, and inertia. Oh, gentlemen, perhaps I really regard myself as an intelligent man only because throughout my entire life I've never been able to start or finish anything. Granted, granted I'm a babbler, a harmless, irksome babbler, as we all are. But what's to be done if the sole and express purpose of every intelligent man is babble - that is, a deliberate pouring from empty into void.

VI

Oh, if I were doing nothing only out of laziness. Lord, how I'd respect myself then. Respect myself precisely because I'd at least be capable of having laziness in me; there would be in me at least one, as it were, positive quality, which I myself could be sure of. Question: who is he? Answer: a lazybones. Now, it would be most agreeable to hear that about myself. It means I'm positively defined; it means there's something to say about me. "Lazybones!" - now, that is a title and a mission, it's a career, sirs. No joking, it really is. By rights I'm then a member of the foremost club, and my sole occupation is ceaselessly respecting myself. I knew a gentleman who prided himself all his life on being a fine judge of Lafite. He regarded it as his positive merit and never doubted himself. He died not merely with a serene but with a triumphant conscience, and he was perfectly right. And so I would choose a career for myself: I would be a lazybones and a glutton, and not just an ordinary one, but, for example, one sympathizing with everything beautiful and lofty. How do you like that? I've long been fancying it. This "beautiful and lofty" has indeed weighed heavy on my head in my forty years; but that's my forty years, while then -oh, then it would be different! I would at once find an appropriate activity for myself - namely, drinking the health of all that is beautiful and lofty. I would seize every occasion, first to shed a tear into my glass, and then to drink it for all that is beautiful and lofty. I would then turn everything in the world into the beautiful and lofty; in the vilest, most unquestionable trash I would discover the beautiful and lofty. I'd become as tearful as a sodden sponge. An artist, for example, has painted a Ge picture. 9 I immediately drink the health of the artist who has painted the Ge picture, because I love all that is beautiful and lofty. An author has written "as anyone pleases"; 10 I immediately drink the health of "anyone who pleases," because I love all that is "beautiful and lofty." For this I'll demand to be respected, I'll persecute whoever does not show me respect. I live peacefully, I die solemnly - why, this is charming, utterly charming! And I'd grow myself such a belly then, I'd fashion such a triple chin for myself, I'd fix myself up such a ruby nose that whoever came along would say, looking at me: "Now, there's a plus! There's a real positive!" And, think what you will, it's most agreeable to hear such comments in our negative age, gentlemen.

VII

But these are all golden dreams. Oh, tell me, who first announced, who was the first to proclaim that man does dirty only because he doesn't know his real interests; and that were he to be enlightened, were his eyes to be opened to his real, normal interests, man would immediately stop doing dirty, would immediately become good and noble, because, being enlightened and understanding his real profit, he would see his real profit precisely in the good, and it's common knowledge that no man can act knowingly against his own profit, consequently, out of necessity, so to speak, he would start doing good? Oh, the babe! oh, the pure, innocent child! and when was it, to begin with, in all these thousands of years, that man acted solely for his own profit? What is to be done with the millions of facts testifying to how people knowingly, that is, fully understanding their real profit, would put it in second place and throw themselves onto another path, a risk, a perchance, not compelled by anyone or anything, but precisely as if they simply did not want the designated path, and stubbornly, willfully pushed off onto another one, difficult, absurd, searching for it all but in the dark. So, then, this stubbornness and willfulness were really more agreeable to them than any profit… Profit! What is profit? And will you take it upon yourself to define with perfect exactitude precisely what man's profit consists in? And what if it so happens that on occasion man's profit not only may but precisely must consist in sometimes wishing what is bad for himself, and not what is profitable? And if so, if there can be such a case, then the whole rule goes up in smoke. What do you think, can such a case occur? You're laughing; laugh then, gentlemen, only answer me: has man's profit been calculated quite correctly? Isn't there something that not only has not been but even cannot be fitted into any classification? Because, gentlemen, as far as I know, you have taken your whole inventory of human profits from an average of statistical figures and scientifico-economic formulas. Because profit for you is prosperity, wealth, freedom, peace, and so on and so forth; so that a man who, for example, openly and knowingly went against this whole inventory would, in your opinion - well, and also in mine, of course - be an obscurantist or a complete madman, right? But here is the surprising thing: how does it happen that all these statisticians, sages, and lovers of mankind, in calculating human profits, constantly omit one profit? They don't even take it into account in the way it ought to be taken, and yet the whole account depends on that. It's no great trouble just to take it, this profit, and include it in the list. But that's the whole bane of it, that this tricky profit doesn't fall into any classification, doesn't fit into any list. I, for instance, have a friend… Eh, gentlemen! but he's your friend as well; and whose friend is he not! Preparing to do something, this gentleman will at once expound to you, with great eloquence and clarity, precisely how he must needs act in accordance with the laws of reason and truth. Moreover: with passion and excitement he will talk to you of real, normal human interests; with mockery he will reproach those shortsighted fools who understand neither their own profit nor the true meaning of virtue; and then, exactly a quarter of an hour later, without any sudden, extraneous cause, but precisely because of something within him that is stronger than all his interests, he'll cut quite a different caper, that is, go obviously against what he himself was just saying: against the laws of reason, against his own profit; well, in short, against everything… I warn you that my friend is a collective person, and therefore it is somehow difficult to blame him alone. That's just the thing, gentlemen, that there may well exist something that is dearer for almost every man than his very best profit, or (so as not to violate logic) that there is this one most profitable profit (precisely the omitted one, the one we were just talking about), which is chiefer and more profitable than all other profits, and for which a man is ready, if need be, to go against all laws, that is, against reason, honor, peace, prosperity - in short, against all these beautiful and useful things - only so as to attain this primary, most profitable profit which is dearer to him than anything else.

"Well, but it is a profit, after all," you will interrupt me. I beg your pardon, sirs, but we shall speak further of it, and the point is not in a play on words, but in the fact that this profit is remarkable precisely because it destroys all our classifications and constantly shatters all the systems elaborated by lovers of mankind for the happiness of mankind. Interferes with everything, in short. But before naming this profit for you, I want to compromise myself personally, and therefore I boldly declare that all these beautiful systems, all these theories that explain to mankind its true, normal interests, so that, striving necessarily to attain these interests, it would at once become good and noble - all this, in my opinion, is so far only logistics! Yes, sirs, logistics! For merely to assert this theory of the renewal of all mankind by means of a system of its own profits - this, to my mind, is almost the same as… well, let's say, for example, the same as asserting, with Buckle, that man gets softer from civilization and, consequently, becomes less bloodthirsty and less capable of war. 11 Logically, it seems, that's what he comes up with. But man is so partial to systems and abstract conclusions that he is ready intentionally to distort the truth, to turn a blind eye and a deaf ear, only so as to justify his logic.

That's why I've chosen this example, because it is an all too vivid one. Why, look around you: blood is flowing in rivers, and in such a jolly way besides, like champagne. Take this whole nineteenth century of ours, in which Buckle also lived. Take Napoleon - both the great one and the present one. Take North America - that everlasting union. Take, finally, this caricature of a Schleswig-Holstein… 12 What is it that civilization softens in us? Civilization cultivates only a versatility of sensations in man, and… decidedly nothing else. And through the development of this versatility, man may even reach the point of finding pleasure in blood. Indeed, this has already happened to him. Have you noticed that the most refined blood-shedders have almost all been the most civilized gentlemen, to whom the various Attilas and Stenka Razins 13 sometimes could not hold a candle? And if they don't strike one as sharply as Attila or Stenka Razin, it is precisely because they occur too frequently, they are too ordinary, too familiar a sight. If man has not become more bloodthirsty from civilization, at any rate he has certainly become bloodthirsty in a worse, a viler way than formerly. Formerly, he saw justice in bloodshed and with a quiet conscience exterminated whoever he had to; while now, though we do regard bloodshed as vile, we still occupy ourselves with this vileness, and even more than formerly. Which is worse? - decide for yourselves. They say that Cleopatra (excuse this example from Roman history) liked to stick golden pins into her slave girls' breasts, and took pleasure in their screaming and writhing. You'll say that this was, relatively speaking, in barbarous times; that now, too, the times are barbarous because (again relatively speaking) now, too, pins get stuck in; that now, too, though man has learned to see more clearly on occasion than in barbarous times, he is still far from having grown accustomed to acting as reason and science dictate. But even so you are perfectly confident that he will not fail to grow accustomed once one or two old bad habits have passed and once common sense and science have thoroughly re-educated and given a normal direction to human nature. You are confident that man will then voluntarily cease making mistakes and, willy-nilly, so to speak, refuse to set his will at variance with his normal interests. Moreover: then, you say, science itself will teach man (though this is really a luxury in my opinion) that in fact he has neither will nor caprice, and never did have any, and that he himself is nothing but a sort of piano key or a sprig in an organ; 14 and that, furthermore, there also exist in the world the laws of nature; so that whatever he does is done not at all according to his own wanting, but of itself, according to the laws of nature. Consequently, these laws of nature need only be discovered, and then man will no longer be answerable for his actions, and his life will become extremely easy. Needless to say, all human actions will then be calculated according to these laws, mathematically, like a table of logarithms, up to 108,000, and entered into a calendar; or, better still, some well-meaning publications will appear, like the present-day encyclopedic dictionaries, in which everything will be so precisely calculated and designated that there will no longer be any actions or adventures in the world.

And it is then - this is still you speaking - that new economic relations will come, quite ready-made, and also calculated with mathematical precision, so that all possible questions will vanish in an instant, essentially because they will have been given all possible answers. Then the crystal palace will get built. 15 Then… well, in short, then the bird Kagan will come flying. 16 Of course, there's no guaranteeing (this is me speaking now) that it won't, for example, be terribly boring then (because what is there to do if everything's calculated according to some little table?), but, on the other hand, it will all be extremely reasonable. Of course, what inventions can boredom not lead to! Golden pins also get stuck in from boredom, but all that would be nothing. The bad thing is (this is me speaking again) that, for all I know, they may be glad of the golden pins then. Man really is stupid, phenomenally stupid. That is, he's by no means stupid, but rather he's so ungrateful that it would be hard to find the likes of him. I, for example, would not be the least bit surprised if suddenly, out of the blue, amid the universal future reasonableness, some gentleman of ignoble, or, better, of retrograde and jeering physiognomy, should emerge, set his arms akimbo, and say to us all: "Well, gentlemen, why don't we reduce all this reasonableness to dust with one good kick, for the sole purpose of sending all these logarithms to the devil and living once more according to our own stupid will!" That would still be nothing, but what is offensive is that he'd be sure to find followers: that's how man is arranged. And all this for the emptiest of reasons, which would seem not even worth mentioning: namely, that man, whoever he might be, has always and everywhere liked to act as he wants, and not at all as reason and profit dictate; and one can want even against one's own profit, and one sometimes even positively must (this is my idea now). One's own free and voluntary wanting, one's own caprice, however wild, one's own fancy, though chafed sometimes to the point of madness - all this is that same most profitable profit, the omitted one, which does not fit into any classification, and because of which all systems and theories are constantly blown to the devil. And where did all these sages get the idea that man needs some normal, some virtuous wanting? What made them necessarily imagine that what man needs is necessarily a reasonably profitable wanting? Man needs only independent wanting, whatever this independence may cost and wherever it may lead. Well, and this wanting, the devil knows…

VIII

HA, ha, ha! but in fact, if you want to know, there isn't any wanting!" you interrupt with a guffaw. "Today's science has even so succeeded in anatomizing man up that we now know that wanting and so-called free will are nothing else but…"

Wait, gentlemen, I myself wanted to begin that way. I confess, I even got scared. I just wanted to cry out that wanting depends on the devil knows what, and thank God, perhaps, for that, but I remembered about this science and… backed off. And just then you started talking. And indeed, well, if one day they really find the formula for all our wantings and caprices -that is, what they depend on, by precisely what laws they occur, precisely how they spread, what they strive for in such-and-such a case, and so on and so forth; a real, mathematical formula, that is - then perhaps man will immediately stop wanting; what's more, perhaps he will certainly stop. Who wants to want according to a little table? Moreover: he will immediately turn from a man into a sprig in an organ or something of the sort; because what is man without desires, without will, and without wantings, if not a sprig in an organ barrel? What do you think?

– let's reckon up the probabilities - can it happen or not?

"Hm…" you decide, "our wantings are for the most part mistaken owing to a mistaken view of our profit. We sometimes want pure rubbish precisely because, in our stupidity, we see this rubbish as the easiest path to the attainment of some preconceived profit. Well, but when it's all explained, worked out on a piece of paper (which is quite possible because, after all, it's vile and senseless to believe beforehand that there are certain laws of nature which man will never learn) - then, to be sure, there will be no more so-called desires. For if wanting someday gets completely in cahoots with reason, then essentially we shall be reasoning and not wanting, because it really is impossible, for example, while preserving reason, to want senselessness and thus knowingly go against reason and wish yourself harm… And since all wantings and reasonings can indeed be calculated

– because, after all, they will someday discover the laws of our so-called free will - then consequently, and joking aside, something like a little table can be arranged, so that we shall indeed want according to this little table. For if it should someday be worked out and proved to me that when I made a fig at such-and-such a person, it was precisely because I could not do otherwise, and that I was bound to do it with such-and-such a finger, then what is left so free in me, especially if I am a learned man and have completed a course of studies somewhere? No, then I can calculate my life for thirty years ahead; in short, if this does get arranged, then we really will have no choice; we'll have to accept it in any case. And, generally, we ought tirelessly to repeat to ourselves that, precisely at such-and-such a moment, in such-and-such circumstances, nature does not ask our permission; that it must be accepted as it is, and not as we fancy, and if we are really aiming at a little table and a calendar, and… well, and even at a retort, then there's no help for it, we must accept the retort! Or else it will get accepted of itself, without you…"

Yes, sirs, but for me that's just where the hitch comes! You will forgive me, gentlemen, for philosophizing away; it's a matter of forty years underground! Allow me to indulge my fancy a bit. You see: reason, gentlemen, is a fine thing, that is unquestionable, but reason is only reason and satisfies only man's reasoning capacity, while wanting is a manifestation of the whole of life - that is, the whole of human life, including reason and various little itches. And though our life in this manifestation often turns out to be a bit of trash, still it is life and not just the extraction of a square root. I, for example, quite naturally want to live so as to satisfy my whole capacity for living, and not so as to satisfy just my reasoning capacity alone, which is some twentieth part of my whole capacity for living. What does reason know? Reason knows only what it has managed to learn (some things, perhaps, it will never learn; this is no consolation, but why not say it anyway?), while human nature acts as an entire whole, with everything that is in it, consciously and unconsciously, and though it lies, still it lives. I suspect, gentlemen, that you are looking at me with pity; you repeat to me that an enlightened and developed man, such, in short, as the future man will be, simply cannot knowingly want anything unprofitable for himself, that this is mathematics. I agree completely, it is indeed mathematics. But I repeat to you for the hundredth time, there is only one case, one only, when man may purposely, consciously wish for himself even the harmful, the stupid, even what is stupidest of all: namely, so as to have the right to wish for himself even what is stupidest of all and not be bound by an obligation to wish for himself only what is intelligent. For this stupidest of all, this caprice of ours, gentlemen, may in fact be the most profitable of anything on earth for our sort, especially in certain cases. And in particular it may be more profitable than all other profits even in the case when it is obviously harmful and contradicts the most sensible conclusions of our reason concerning profits - because in any event it preserves for us the chiefest and dearest thing, that is, our personality and our individuality. Now, some insist that this is indeed the dearest of all things for man; wanting may, of course, converge with reason, if it wants, especially if this is not abused but is done with moderation; it is both useful and sometimes even praiseworthy. But wanting is very often, and even for the most part, completely and stubbornly at odds with reason, and… and… and, do you know, this, too, is useful and sometimes even quite praiseworthy? Suppose, gentlemen, that man is not stupid. (Really, it is quite impossible to say he is, for the sole reason that if he is stupid, who then is intelligent?) But even if he isn't stupid, all the same he's monstrously ungrateful! Phenomenally ungrateful. I even think the best definition of man is: a being that goes on two legs and is ungrateful. But that's still not all; that's still not his chief defect; his chiefest defect is his constant lack of good behavior - constant from the great flood to the Schleswig-Holstein period of man's destiny. Lack of good behavior and, consequently, lack of good sense; for it has long been known that lack of good sense comes from nothing else but the lack of good behavior. Try casting a glance at the history of mankind; well, what will you see? Majestic? Maybe it is majestic; the Colossus of Rhodes alone, for example, is worth something! Not without reason did Mr Anaevsky 17 testify that while some say it was the work of human hands, others insist it was created by nature itself. Colorful? Maybe it is colorful; one need only sort through the full-dress military and civil uniforms of all times and all peoples - that alone is worth something, and if you were to add the uniforms of the lower civil ranks, you could really break a leg; no historian would be left standing. Monotonous? Well, maybe also monotonous: they fight and fight, they fight now, and fought before, and fought afterwards - you'll agree it's even all too monotonous. In short, anything can be said about world history, anything that might just enter the head of the most disturbed imagination. Only one thing cannot be said - that it is sensible. You'd choke on the first word. And one even comes upon this sort of thing all the time: there constantly appear in life people of such good behavior and good sense, such sages and lovers of mankind, as precisely make it their goal to spend their entire lives in the best-behaved and most sensible way possible, to become, so to speak, a light for their neighbors, essentially in order to prove to them that one can indeed live in the world as a person of good behavior and good sense. And what then? It is known that sooner or later, towards the end of their lives, many of these lovers have betrayed themselves, producing some anecdote, sometimes even of the most indecent sort. Now I ask you: what can be expected of man as a being endowed with such strange qualities? Shower him with all earthly blessings, drown him in happiness completely, over his head, so that only bubbles pop up on the surface of happiness, as on water; give him such economic satisfaction that he no longer has anything left to do at all except sleep, eat gingerbread, and worry about the noncessation of world history- and it is here, just here, that he, this man, out of sheer ingratitude, out of sheer lampoonery, will do something nasty. He will even risk his gingerbread, and wish on purpose for the most pernicious nonsense, the most noneconomical meaninglessness, solely in order to mix into all this positive good sense his own pernicious, fantastical element. It is precisely his fantastic dreams, his most banal stupidity, that he will wish to keep hold of, with the sole purpose of confirming to himself (as if it were so very necessary) that human beings are still human beings and not piano keys, which, though played upon with their own hands by the laws of nature themselves, are in danger of being played so much that outside the calendar it will be impossible to want anything. And more than that: even if it should indeed turn out that he is a piano key, if it were even proved to him mathematically and by natural science, he would still not come to reason, but would do something contrary on purpose, solely out of ingratitude alone; essentially to have his own way. And if he finds himself without means - he will invent destruction and chaos, he will invent all kinds of suffering, and still have his own way! He will launch a curse upon the world, and since man alone is able to curse (that being his privilege, which chiefly distinguishes him from other animals), he may achieve his end by the curse alone - that is, indeed satisfy himself that he is a man and not a piano key! If you say that all this, the chaos and darkness and cursing, can also be calculated according to a little table, so that the mere possibility of a prior calculation will put a stop to it all and reason will claim its own - then he will deliberately go mad for the occasion, so as to do without reason and still have his own way! I believe in this, I will answer for this, because the whole human enterprise seems indeed to consist in man's proving to himself every moment that he is a man and not a sprig! With his own skin if need be, but proving it; by troglodytism if need be, but proving it. And how not sin after that, how not boast that this has still not come about, and that wanting so far still depends on the devil knows what…

You shout at me (if you do still honor me with your shouts) that no one is taking my will from me here; that all they're doing here is busily arranging it somehow so that my will, of its own will, coincides with my normal interests, with the laws of nature, and with arithmetic.

Eh, gentlemen, what sort of will of one's own can there be if it comes to tables and arithmetic, and the only thing going is two times two is four? Two times two will be four even without my will. As if that were any will of one's own!

IX

Gentlemen, I am joking, of course, and I myself know that I am not joking very successfully, but one really cannot take everything as a joke. Maybe I'm grinding my teeth as I joke.. Gentlemen, I am tormented by questions; resolve them for me. You, for example, want to make man unlearn his old habits, and to correct his will in conformity with the demands of science and common sense. But how do you know that man not only can be but must be remade in this way? What makes you conclude that man's wanting so necessarily needs to be corrected? In short, how do you know that such a correction will indeed be profitable for man? And, if we're to say everything, why are you so certainly convinced that not to go against real, normal profits, guaranteed by the arguments of reason and arithmetic, is indeed always profitable for man and is a law for the whole of mankind? So far, it's still just your supposition. Suppose it is a law of logic, but perhaps not of mankind at all. Perhaps you think, gentlemen, that I am mad? Allow me an observation. I agree: man is predominantly a creating animal, doomed to strive consciously towards a goal and to occupy himself with the art of engineering - that is, to eternally and ceaselessly make a road for himself that at least goes somewhere or other. But sometimes he may wish to swerve aside, precisely because he is doomed to open this road, and also perhaps because, stupid though the ingenuous figure generally is, it still sometimes occurs to him that this road almost always turns out to go somewhere or other, and the main thing is not where it goes, but that it should simply be going, and that the well-behaved child, by neglecting the art of engineering, not give himself up to pernicious idleness, which, as is known, is the mother of all vice. Man loves creating and the making of roads, that is indisputable. But why does he so passionately love destruction and chaos as well? Tell me that! But of this I wish specially to say a couple of words myself. Can it be that he has such a love of destruction and chaos (it's indisputable that he sometimes loves them very much; that is a fact) because he is instinctively afraid of achieving the goal and completing the edifice he is creating? How do you know, maybe he likes the edifice only from far off, and by no means up close; maybe he only likes creating it, and not living in it, leaving it afterwards aux animaux domestiques, 18 such as ants, sheep, and so on and so forth. Now, ants have totally different tastes. They have a remarkable edifice of the same sort, forever indestructible - the anthill.

With the anthill the most reverend ants began, and with the anthill they will doubtless end as well, which does great credit to their constancy and positiveness. But man is a frivolous and unseemly being, and perhaps, similar to a chess player, likes only the process of achieving the goal, but not the goal itself. And who knows (one cannot vouch for it), perhaps the whole goal mankind strives for on earth consists just in this cease-lessness of the process of achievement alone, that is to say, in life itself, and not essentially in the goal, which, of course, is bound to be nothing other than two times two is four - that is, a formula; and two times two is four is no longer life, gentlemen, but the beginning of death. At least man has always somehow feared this two times two is four, and I fear it even now. Suppose all man ever does is search for this two times two is four; he crosses oceans, he sacrifices his life in the search; but to search it out, actually to find it - by God, he's somehow afraid. For he senses that once he finds it, there will be nothing to search for. Workers, when they're done working, at least get their pay, go to a pot-house, then wind up with the police - so it keeps them busy for a week. But where is man to go? Something awkward, at any rate, can be noticed in him each time he achieves some such goal. Achieving he likes, but having achieved he does not quite like, and that, of course, is terribly funny. In short, man is comically arranged; there is apparently a joke in all this. But still, two times two is four is a most obnoxious thing. Two times two is four - why, in my opinion, it's sheer impudence, sirs. Two times two is four has a cocky look; it stands across your path, arms akimbo, and spits. I agree that two times two is four is an excellent thing; but if we're going to start praising everything, then two times two is five is sometimes also a most charming little thing.

And why are you so firmly, so solemnly convinced that only the normal and the positive, in short, that only well-being, is profitable for man? Is reason not perhaps mistaken as to profits? Maybe man does not love well-being only? Maybe he loves suffering just as much? Maybe suffering is just as profitable for him as well-being? For man sometimes loves suffering terribly much, to the point of passion, and that is a fact. Here there's not even any need to consult world history; just ask yourself, if you're a human being and have had any life at all. As for my personal opinion, to love just well-being alone is even somehow indecent. Whether it's good or bad, it's sometimes also very pleasant to break something. I, as a matter of fact, take my stand here neither with suffering nor with well-being. I stand… for my own caprice, and that it be guaranteed me when necessary. Suffering, for example, is inadmissible in vaudevilles, I know that. In a crystal palace it is even unthinkable: suffering is doubt, it is negation, and what good is a crystal palace in which one can have doubts? And yet I'm certain that man will never renounce real suffering, that is, destruction and chaos. Suffering - why, this is the sole cause of consciousness. Though I did declare at the beginning that consciousness, in my opinion, is man's greatest misfortune, still I know that man loves it and will not exchange it for any satisfactions. Consciousness, for example, is infinitely higher than two times two. After two times two there would, of course, be nothing left - not only to do, but even to learn. The only possible thing to do then would be to stop up our five senses and immerse ourselves in contemplation. Well, but with consciousness, though the result comes out the same - that is, again there's nothing to do - at least one can occasionally whip oneself, and, after all, that livens things up a bit. It may be retrograde, but still it's better than nothing.

X

You believe in a crystal edifice, forever indestructible; that is, in an edifice at which one can neither put out one's tongue on the sly nor make a fig in the pocket. 19 Well, and perhaps I'm afraid of this edifice precisely because it is crystal and forever indestructible, and it will be impossible to put out one's tongue at it even on the sly.

Now look: if instead of a palace there is a chicken coop, and it starts to rain, I will perhaps get into the chicken coop to avoid a wetting, but all the same I will not take the chicken coop for a palace out of gratitude for its having kept me from the rain. You laugh, you even say that in that case it makes no difference - chicken coop or mansion. Yes, say I, if one were to live only so as not to get wet.

But what's to be done if I've taken it into my head that one does not live only for that, and that if one is to live, it had better be in a mansion? This is my wanting, this is my desire. You will scrape it out of me only when you change my desires. So, change them, seduce me with something else, give me a different ideal. But meanwhile I will not take a chicken coop for a palace. Let it even be so that the crystal edifice is a bluff, that by the laws of nature it should not even be, and that I've invented it only as a result of my own stupidity, as a result of certain old nonrational habits of our generation. But what do I care if it should not be? What difference does it make, since it exists in my desires, or, better, exists as long as my desires exist? Perhaps you're laughing again? Laugh, if you please; I will accept all mockery, but still I won't say I'm full when I'm hungry; still I know that I will not rest with a compromise, with a ceaseless, recurring zero, simply because according to the laws of nature it exists, and exists really. I will not take a tenement house, with apartments for the poor, and a thousand-year lease, and the dentist Wagenheim's shingle for good measure, as the crown of my desires. Destroy my desires, wipe out my ideals, show me something better, and I will follow you. Perhaps you'll say it's not worth getting involved; but in that case I can answer you the same way. Our discussion is serious; if you do not deign to give me your attention, I am not going to bow and scrape before you. I have the underground.

But so long as I live and desire - let my hand wither 20 if I bring even one little brick for such a tenement house! Never mind that I myself have just rejected the crystal edifice, for the sole reason that one cannot taunt it with one's tongue. I said that not because I have such a love of putting out my tongue. Perhaps I was angry simply because such an edifice, at which it is possible not to put out one's tongue, has never yet been found among all your edifices. On the contrary, I would let my tongue be cut off altogether, from sheer gratitude, if only it could be so arranged that I myself never felt like sticking it out again. What do I care that it's impossible to arrange it so, and one must content oneself with apartments? Why, then, have I been arranged with such desires? Can it be that I've been arranged simply so as to come to the conclusion that my entire arrangement is a hoax? Can that be the whole purpose? I don't believe it. You know what, though: I'm convinced that our sort, the underground ones, ought to be kept on a tether. Though we're capable of sitting silently in the underground for forty years, once we do come out and let loose, we talk, talk, talk…

XI

The final end, gentlemen: better to do nothing! Better conscious inertia! And so, long live the underground! Though I did say that I envy the normal man to the point of uttermost bile, still I do not want to be him on those conditions in which I see him (though, all the same, I shall not stop envying him. No, no, the underground is in any case more profitable!). There one can at least… Eh! but here, too, I'm lying! Lying, because I myself know, like two times two, that it is not at all the underground that is better, but something different, completely different, which I thirst for but cannot ever find! Devil take the underground!

Even this would be better here: if I myself believed at least something of all I've just written. For I swear to you, gentlemen, that I do not believe a word, not one little word, of all I've just scribbled! That is, I do believe, perhaps, but at the same time, who knows why, I sense and suspect that I'm lying like a cobbler.

"Then why did you write it all?" you say to me.

And what if I put you away for some forty years with nothing to do, and then come to you in the underground after forty years to see how you've turned out? One cannot leave a man alone and unoccupied for forty years, can one?

"But is this not shameful, is it not humiliating!" you will perhaps say to me, contemptuously shaking your heads. "You thirst for life, yet you yourself resolve life's questions with a logical tangle. And how importunate, how impudent your escapades, yet at the same time how frightened you are! You talk nonsense, and are pleased with it; you say impudent things, yet you keep being afraid and asking forgiveness for them. You insist that you are not afraid of anything, and at the same time you court our opinion. You insist that you are gnashing your teeth, and at the same time you exert your wit to make us laugh. You know that your witticisms are not witty, but you are apparently quite pleased with their literary merits. You may indeed have happened to suffer, but you do not have the least respect for your suffering. There is truth in you, too, but no integrity; out of the pettiest vanity you take your truth and display it, disgrace it, in the marketplace… You do indeed want to say something, but you conceal your final word out of fear, because you lack the resolve to speak it out, you have only cowardly insolence. You boast about consciousness, yet all you do is vacillate, because, though your mind works, your heart is darkened by depravity, and without a pure heart there can be no full, right consciousness. And how importunate you are, how you foist yourself, how you mug! Lies, lies, lies!"

To be sure, I myself have just made up all these words of yours. This, too, is from underground. I've spent forty years on end there listening to these words of yours through a crack. I thought them up myself, since this was all that would get thought up. No wonder they got learned by heart and assumed a literary form…

But can it be, can it be that you are indeed so gullible as to imagine I will publish all this and, what's more, give it to you to read? And here's another puzzle for me: why indeed do I call you "gentlemen," why do I address you as if you were actually my readers? Such confessions as I intend to begin setting forth here are not published and given to others to read. At least I do not have so much firmness in myself, and do not consider it necessary to have it. But you see: a certain fancy has come into my head, and I want at all costs to realize it. Here's what it is.

In every man's memories there are such things as he will reveal not to everyone, but perhaps only to friends. There are also such as he will reveal not even to friends, but only to himself, and that in secret. Then, finally, there are such as a man is afraid to reveal even to himself, and every decent man will have accumulated quite a few things of this sort. That is, one might even say: the more decent a man is, the more of them he will have. At least I myself have only recently resolved to recall some of my former adventures, which till now I have always avoided, even with a certain uneasiness. Now, however, when I not only recall them but am even resolved to write them down, now I want precisely to make a test: is it possible to be perfectly candid with oneself and not be afraid of the whole truth? I will observe incidentally: Heine insists that faithful autobiographies are almost impossible, and that a man is sure to tell a pack of lies about himself. In his opinion, Rousseau, for example, most certainly told a pack of lies about himself in his confessions, and even did so intentionally, out of vanity. 21 I'm sure Heine is right; I understand very well how one can sometimes slap whole crimes on oneself solely out of vanity, and I even perceive quite well what sort of vanity it might be. But Heine's opinion concerned a man who was confessing before the public. I, however, am writing only for myself, and I declare once and for all that even if I write as if I were addressing readers, that is merely a front, because it's easier for me to write that way. It's a form, just an empty form, and I shall never have any readers. I have already declared as much…

I do not want to hamper myself with anything in preparing my notes. I will not introduce any order or system. Whatever I recall, I will write down.

Now, for example, someone might seize upon a word and ask me: if you really are not counting on any readers, why then do you make such agreements with yourself, and on paper besides, that you will introduce no order or system, that you will write down whatever you recall, etc., etc.? Why these explanations? Why these apologies?

"Well, so it goes," I reply.

There is, however, a whole psychology here. Maybe it's also that I'm simply a coward. And maybe also that I'm purposely imagining a public before me so as to behave more decently while I write. There may be a thousand reasons.

But here is another thing: for what and to what end, in fact, do I want to write? If not for the public, then why not simply recall everything mentally, without transferring it to paper?

Right, sir; but on paper it will somehow come out more solemnly. There's something imposing in it, there will be more of a judgment on oneself, it will gain in style. Besides: maybe I will indeed get relief from the writing. Today, for example, I'm particularly oppressed by one distant recollection. I recalled it clearly the other day, and it has since stayed with me like a nagging musical tune that refuses to be gotten rid of. And yet one must get rid of it. I have hundreds of such recollections; but some one out of a hundred emerges every now and then and oppresses me. I believe for some reason that if I write it down, I shall then be rid of it. So why not try?

Finally: I'm bored, and I constantly do nothing. And writing things down really seems like work. They say work makes a man good and honest. Well, here's a chance, at least.

Snow is falling today, almost wet, yellow, dull. And it was falling yesterday, and it was falling the other day as well. I think it was apropos of the wet snow that I recalled this anecdote that now refuses to be gotten rid of. And so, let this be a story apropos of the wet snow. 22

PART TWO

APROPOS OF THE WET SNOW

When from out of error's darkness With a word both sure and ardent I had drawn the fallen soul, And you, filled with deepest torment, Cursed the vice that had ensnared you And so doing wrung your hands; When, punishing with recollection Forgetful conscience, you then told The tale of all that went before me, And suddenly you hid your face In trembling hands and, filled with horror, Filled with shame, dissolved in tears, Indignant as you were, and shaken… Etc., etc., etc.

From the poetry ofN. A. Nekrasov 1

I

At that time I was only twenty-four years old. My life then was already gloomy, disorderly, and solitary to the point of savagery. I did not associate with anyone, even avoided speaking, and shrank more and more into my corner. At work, in the office, I even tried not to look at anyone, and I noticed very well that my colleagues not only considered me an odd man, but - as I also kept fancying - seemed to look at me with a certain loathing. It used to occur to me: why does no one except me fancy that people look at him with loathing? There was one in our office who had a disgusting and most pockmarked face, even somehow like a bandit's. With such an indecent face, I think I wouldn't even have dared to glance at anyone. Another hadn't changed his uniform for so long that there was a bad smell in his vicinity. And yet neither of these gentlemen was embarrassed - either with regard to his clothes or his face, or somehow morally. Neither the one nor the other imagined that he was looked at with loathing; and even if they had imagined it, it would have been all the same to them, so long as their superiors did not deign to pay heed. It's perfectly clear to me now that it was I who, owing to my boundless vanity, and hence also my exactingness towards myself, very often looked upon myself with furious dissatisfaction, reaching the point of loathing, and therefore mentally attributed my view to everyone else. I hated my face, for example, found it odious, and even suspected that there was some mean expression in it, and therefore every time I came to work I made a painful effort to carry myself as independently as possible, so as not to be suspected of meanness, and to express as much nobility as possible with my face. "Let it not be a beautiful face," I thought, "but, to make up for that, let it be a noble, an expressive, and, above all, an extremely intelligent one." Yet I knew, with certainty and suffering, that I would never be able to express all those perfections with the face I had. The most terrible thing was that I found it positively stupid. And I would have been quite satisfied with intelligence. Let's even say I would even have agreed to a mean expression, provided only that at the same time my face be found terribly intelligent.

Of course, I hated them all in our office, from first to last, and despised them all, but at the same time I was also as if afraid of them. It happened that I would suddenly set them above myself. Things were somehow sudden with me in those days: now I despised them, now I set them above me. A developed and decent man cannot be vain without a boundless exactingness towards himself and without despising himself at moments to the point of hatred. But whether I despised them or set them above me, I used to drop my eyes before almost everyone I met. I even made experiments: will I be able to endure so-and-so's glance on me? - and I was always the first to drop my eyes. This tormented me to the point of fury.

I was also afraid to the point of illness of being ridiculous, and therefore slavishly worshiped routine in everything to do with externals; I loved falling into the common rut, and feared any eccentricity in myself with all my soul. But how could I hold out? I was morbidly developed, as a man of our time ought to be developed. And they were all dull-witted and as like one another as a flock of sheep. Perhaps to me alone in the whole office did it constantly seem that I was a coward and a slave; it seemed so to me precisely because I was developed. But it not only seemed, in fact it really was so: I was a coward and a slave. I say it without any embarrassment. Every decent man of our time is and must be a coward and a slave. That is his normal condition. I am deeply convinced of it. He's made that way, and arranged for it. And not in the present time, owing to some sort of chance circumstances, but generally in all times a decent man must be a coward and a slave. That is the natural law of all decent people on earth. If one of them does happen to get up a bit of pluck in something, let him not be eased or pleased by that: he'll still quail before something else. Such is the sole and everlasting outcome. Only asses and their mongrels show pluck, and even then only up to that certain wall. It's not worth paying any attention to them, because they mean precisely nothing.

One other circumstance tormented me then: namely, that no one else was like me, and I was like no one else. "I am one, and they are all," thought I, and - I'd fall to thinking.

Which shows what a young pup I still was.

Contraries also occurred. It was sometimes so disgusting to go to the office: it reached the point that I would often come home from work sick. Then suddenly, for no reason at all, comes a spell of skepticism and indifference (everything came in spells with me), and here I am laughing at my own intolerance and fastidiousness, reproaching myself with romanticism. One moment I don't even want to speak with anyone, and the next I go so far that I'm not only chatting away, but am even deciding to become close with them. All fastidiousness would suddenly disappear at once, for no reason at all. Who knows, maybe

I never had any, maybe it was just an affectation, out of books? To this day I haven't resolved this question. Once I even became quite friendly with them, began visiting their homes, playing preference, drinking vodka, discussing promotions… But allow me a digression here.

We Russians, generally speaking, have never had any stupid, translunary German, and more especially French, romantics, who are not affected by anything; let the earth crumble under them, let the whole of France perish on the barricades - they are what they are, they won't change even for the sake of decency, and they'll go on singing their translunary songs till their dying day, so to speak, because they're fools. But we, in our Russian land, have no fools; that is a known fact; that's what makes us different from all those other German lands. Consequently, we have no translunary natures in a pure state. It was our "positive" publicists and critics of the time, hunting after Kostanzhoglos and Uncle Pyotr Ivanoviches, 2 and being foolish enough to take them for our ideal, who heaped it all on our romantics, holding them to be of the same translunary sort as in Germany or France. On the contrary, the properties of our romantic are utterly and directly opposite to those of the translunary European, and no little European yardstick will fit here. (Do permit me the use of this word "romantic" - a venerable word, respectable, worthy, and familiar to all.) The properties of our romantic are to understand everything, to see everything, and to see often incomparably more clearly than our very most positive minds do; not to be reconciled with anyone or anything, but at the same time not to spurn anything; to get around everything, to yield to everything, to be politic with everyone; never to lose sight of the useful, practical goal (some nice little government apartment, a little pension, a little decoration or two) - to keep an eye on this goal through all enthusiasms and little volumes of lyrical verses, and at the same time also to preserve "the beautiful and lofty" inviolate in himself till his dying day, and incidentally to preserve himself quite successfully as well, somehow in cotton wool, like some little piece of jewelry, if only, shall we say, for the benefit of that same

"beautiful and lofty." He's a broad man, our romantic, and the foremost knave of all our knaves, I can assure you of that… even from experience. Naturally, all this is so if the romantic is intelligent. That is - what am I saying! - the romantic is always intelligent; I merely wished to observe that, while we do happen to have had some fool romantics, that doesn't count, for the sole reason that while still in the bloom of life they regenerated definitively into Germans and, to preserve their little piece of jewelry more comfortably, settled somewhere rather in Weimar or the Schwarzwald. 3 I, for example, sincerely despised my service employment, and if I didn't go around spitting, it was only out of necessity, because I was sitting there getting money for it. The result being - you will note - that I still didn't go around spitting. Our romantic would sooner lose his mind (which, however, happens very seldom) than start spitting, unless he's got his eye on some other career, and he will never be kicked out, except perhaps that he might be carted off to the madhouse as "the king of Spain," 4 and that only if he loses his mind very much. But among us only the weaklings and • towheads lose their minds. While the countless number of romantics go on to achieve considerable rank. Remarkable versatility! And what capacity for the very most contradictory feelings! I took comfort in that even then, and am of the same mind now. That is why we have so many "broad natures" who even with the ultimate fall never lose their ideal; and though they wouldn't lift a finger for their ideal, though they are inveterate bandits and thieves, all the same they respect their original ideal to the point of tears and are remarkably honest in their souls. Yes, sirs, only among us can the most inveterate scoundrel be perfectly and even loftily honest in his soul, while not ceasing in the least to be a scoundrel. Time and again, I repeat, such practical rogues come out of our romantics (I use the word "rogue" lovingly); they suddenly display such a sense of reality and such knowledge of the positive that the amazed authorities and public can only stand dumbfounded, clucking their tongues at them.

The versatility is indeed amazing, and God knows what it will turn and develop into in subsequent circumstances, and what it promises us for our times to come. It's not bad material, sirs! I don't say this out of any ridiculous or home-brewed patriotism. However, I'm sure you again think I'm laughing. Or, who knows, maybe contrariwise - that is, you're quite sure I really think so. In any event, gentlemen, I shall regard both your opinions as an honor and a special pleasure. And do forgive me my digression.

Of course, I could not sustain this friendliness with my colleagues; I'd spit in their eyes and, as a result of my still youthful inexperience, even stop greeting them, as if I'd cut them off. However, this happened to me only once. Generally, I was always alone.

At home, to begin with, I mainly used to read. I wished to stifle with external sensations all that was ceaselessly boiling up inside me. And among external sensations the only one possible for me was reading. Reading was, of course, a great help - it stirred, delighted, and tormented me. But at times it bored me terribly. I still wanted to move about, and so I'd suddenly sink into some murky, subterranean, vile debauch - not a great, but a measly little debauch. There were measly little passions in me, sharp, burning, because of my permanent, morbid irritability. I was given to hysterical outbursts, with tears and convulsions. Apart from reading I had nowhere to turn - that is, there was nothing I could then respect in my surroundings, nothing I would be drawn to. What's more, anguish kept boiling up; a hysterical thirst for contradictions, contrasts, would appear, and so I'd set out on debauchery. It is not at all to justify myself that I've been doing all this talking… But no! that's a lie! I precisely wanted to justify myself. I make this little note for myself, gentlemen. I don't want to lie. I've given my word.

My debauchery I undertook solitarily, by night, covertly, fearfully, filthily, with a shame that would not abandon me at the most loathsome moments, and at such moments even went so far as a curse. I was then already bearing the underground in my soul. I was terribly afraid of somehow being seen, met, recognized. I used to frequent various rather murky places.

Once, passing at night by some wretched little tavern, I saw through the lighted window some gentlemen fighting with their cues around the billiard table and one of them being chucked out the window. At another time I would have been filled with loathing; but one of those moments suddenly came over me, and I envied this chucked-out gentleman, envied him so much that I even went into the tavern, into the billiard room: "Perhaps I, too, will have a fight," I thought, "and get chucked out the window myself."

I was not drunk, but what do you want of me - anguish can eat a man into such hysterics! But it came to nothing. I proved incapable even of jumping out the window and left without having had any fight.

From the very first I was brought up short there by a certain officer.

I was standing beside the billiard table, blocking the way unwittingly, and he wanted to pass; he took me by the shoulders and silently - with no warning or explanation - moved me from where I stood to another place, and then passed by as if without noticing. I could even have forgiven a beating, but I simply could not forgive his moving me and in the end just not noticing me.

Devil knows what I'd have given then for a real, more regular quarrel, more decent, more, so to speak, literary! I had been treated like a fly. This officer was a good six feet tall; and I am a short and skinny man. The quarrel, however, was up to me: all I had to do was protest a bit and, of course, I'd be chucked out the window. But I changed my mind and preferred… to efface myself spitefully.

I left the tavern confused and agitated, went straight home, and the next day continued my little debauch still more timidly, downtroddenly, and sadly than before, as if with a tear in my eye - yet I did continue it. Do not think, however, that I turned coward before the officer out of cowardice: in my soul I have never been a coward, though I constantly turned coward in reality, but - don't laugh too quickly, there's an explanation for that; rest assured, I have an explanation for everything.

Oh, if this officer had been one of those who would agree to fight a duel! But no, he was precisely one of those gentlemen (alas, long since vanished) who preferred to set about it with billiard cues, or, like Lieutenant Pirogov in Gogol 5 - by means of the authorities. But they would not fight a duel, and in any case would regard a duel with our sort, the pencil-pushers, as indecent - and they generally regarded dueling as something inconceivable, freethinking, French, while giving ample offense themselves, especially in cases of six-foot-tallness.

I turned coward not from cowardice, but from the most boundless vanity. I was afraid, not of six-foot-tallness, nor of being badly beaten and chucked out the window; I really would have had physical courage enough; what I lacked was sufficient moral courage. I was afraid that none of those present - from the insolent marker to the last putrid and blackhead-covered clerk with a collar of lard who was hanging about there -would understand, and that they would all deride me if I started protesting and talking to them in literary language. Because among us to this day it is impossible to speak of a point of honor - that is, not honor, but a point of honor (point d'honneur) - otherwise than in literary language. In ordinary language there is no mention of a "point of honor." I was quite sure (what a sense of reality, despite all romanticism!) that they would all simply burst with laughter, and the officer would beat me, not simply, that is, inoffensively, but would certainly start kicking me with his knee, driving me in this manner around the billiard table, and only then perhaps have mercy and chuck me out the window. Of course, for me this measly story could not end there. Later I often met this officer in the street and made good note of him. Only I don't know whether he recognized me. Probably not; I conclude that from certain signs. I, however, I - looked at him with spite and hatred, and so it continued… for several years, sirs! My spite even kept strengthening and burgeoning with the years. First I quietly began finding things out about this officer. This was not easy for me, because I had no acquaintances. But once someone called him by his surname in the street while I was following him at a distance, as if tied to him, and so I learned his surname. Another time I trailed him all the way home, and for ten kopecks found out from the caretaker where he lived, on what floor, alone or with someone, and so on - in short, everything that can be learned from a caretaker. Then one morning, though I had never literaturized, it suddenly came into my head to describe this officer in the manner of an espose, as a caricature, in a story. It was a delight to me to write this story. I esposed him, even slandered him a bit; at first I distorted his surname in a way that made it immediately recognizable, but then, on riper reflection, I changed it and sent the story to Fatherland Notes. But there were no esposes yet, and my story wasn't published. 6 I found this quite vexing. There were times when I was simply choking with spite. In the end I decided to challenge my adversary to a duel. I composed a beautiful, attractive letter to him, entreating him to apologize to me; and hinted quite strongly at a duel in case of refusal. The letter was composed in such a way that if the officer had even the slightest notion of "the beautiful and lofty," he could not fail to come running to me, to throw himself on my neck and offer me his friendship. And that would be so nice! What a life we would have, what a life! He would protect me with his dignity; I would ennoble him with my development and, well… ideas, and there could be so much of this or that! Imagine, by then it was already two years since he had offended me, and my challenge was a most outrageous anachronism, in spite of all the cleverness of my letter in explaining away and concealing the anachronism. But, thank God (to this day I thank the Almighty with tears), I did not send my letter. I go cold all over when I recall what might have happened if I had sent it. And suddenly… suddenly I got my revenge in the simplest, the most brilliant way! The brightest idea suddenly dawned on me. Sometimes on holidays I would go to Nevsky Prospect between three and four, and stroll along the sunny side. That is, I by no means went strolling there, but experienced countless torments, humiliations, and risings of bile; that must have been just what I needed. I darted like an eel among the passers-by, in a most uncomely fashion, ceaselessly giving way now to generals, now to cavalry officers and hussars, now to ladies; in those moments I felt convulsive pains in my heart and a hotness in my spine at the mere thought of the measliness of my attire and the measliness and triteness of my darting little figure. This was a torment of torments, a ceaseless, unbearable humiliation from the thought, which would turn into a ceaseless and immediate sensation, of my being a fly before that whole world, a foul, obscene fly - more intelligent, more developed, more noble than everyone else - that went without saying - but a fly, ceaselessly giving way to everyone, humiliated by everyone, insulted by everyone. Why I gathered this torment onto myself, why I went to Nevsky - I don't know, I was simply drawn there at every opportunity.

I was then already beginning to experience the influxes of those pleasures of which I have already spoken in the first chapter. And after the story with the officer, I began to be drawn there even more strongly: it was on Nevsky that I met him most often, it was there that I admired him. He, too, used mostly to go there on holidays. And he, too, swerved out of the way before generals and persons of dignity, and he, too, slipped among them like an eel, but those of our sort, or even better than our sort, he simply crushed; he went straight at them as if there were an empty space before him, and on no occasion gave way to them. I reveled in my spite as I watched him, and… each time spitefully swerved out of his way. It tormented me that even in the street I simply could not be on an equal footing with him. "Why is it invariably you who swerve first?" I kept nagging at myself, in furious hysterics, sometimes waking up, say, between two and three in the morning. "Why precisely you and not him? There's no law that says so, it's not written anywhere? Well, then let it be equal, as is usual when men of delicacy meet: he can yield by half, and you by half, and so you will pass mutually respecting each other." But it was never so, and I still kept swerving, and he did not even notice that I was giving way to him. And then a most astonishing thought suddenly dawned on me. "What," I fancied, "what if I meet him and… do not step aside? Deliberately do not step aside, even if I have to shove him - eh? how will that be?" This bold thought gradually took such possession of me that it left me no peace. I dreamed of it ceaselessly, terribly, and deliberately went more often to Nevsky, to picture more clearly how I was going to do it when I did it. I was in ecstasy. The intention seemed more and more probable and possible to me. "Not really to shove him, of course," I thought, growing kinder in advance from joy, "but just so, simply not to give way, to bump into him, not so very painfully, but so, shoulder against shoulder, only as much as decency warrants, so that exactly as much as he bumps me, I will also bump him." I was, finally, completely decided on it. But the preparations took a very long time. First of all, at the time of the performance one had to look as decent as possible and see to one's attire. "Just in case, supposing, for example, that a public incident should get started (and the public there is superflu: 7 a countess goes, Prince D. goes, the whole of literature goes), one must be well dressed; this makes an impression, and in some sense will put us straightaway on an equal footing in the eyes of high society." To that end I asked for an advance on my salary and bought black gloves and a respectable hat at Churkin's. Black gloves, it seemed to me, were both more imposing and more in bon ton than the lemon-colored ones I had first presumed upon. "The color is too striking, it's too much as if a man wants to make a show of himself," and I did not buy the lemon ones. I had long since prepared a good shirt with white bone cufflinks; but I was very much detained by the overcoat. My overcoat was not bad at all in itself, it kept me warm; but it had a quilted cotton lining, and the collar was of raccoon, which constituted the height of lackeydom. It was necessary to change the collar at any cost and to acquire a beaver, something like what officers wore. For that I began walking about the Gostiny Arcade 8 and, after several attempts, set my sights on a cheap German beaver. Though these German beavers wear out very quickly and acquire a most measly look, at first, when new, they even seem quite decent; and I needed it for only one time. I asked the price: it was expensive even so. After some solid reflection I decided to sell my raccoon collar. And the remaining and for me quite considerable sum I decided to try and borrow from Anton Antonych Setochkin, my department chief, a humble but serious and positive man, who never loaned money to anyone, but to whom I had once, on entering my post, been especially recommended by the important personage who had placed me in the civil service. I was terribly tormented. To ask money of Anton Antonych seemed to me monstrous and shameful. I even could not sleep for two or three nights, but then I generally slept little at that time, I was in a fever; my heart was somehow vaguely sinking, or else it would suddenly start to go thump, thump, thump!… Anton Antonych was surprised at first, then he frowned, then he considered, and after all he gave me the loan, having me sign an authorization for him to take the loaned money from my salary two weeks later. Thus everything was finally ready; a handsome beaver came to reign in place of the squalid raccoon, and I gradually began to get down to business. I really couldn't just decide it straight off, slapdash; the thing had to be handled deftly, precisely gradually. But I confess that after many attempts I even began to despair: we simply couldn't bump into each other - and that was that! After all my preparations, after all my premeditations - it would look as if we were just about to bump into each other, and then - again I'd give way, and he would pass by without noticing me. I even recited prayers while approaching him, asking God to inspire me with decisiveness. One time I was already quite decided, but it just ended with me getting under his feet, because in the very last moment, at some two inches away, I lost courage. He quite calmly walked over me, and I bounced aside like a ball. That night I was sick again, feverish and delirious. And suddenly everything ended in the best possible way. The night before, I resolved finally not to carry out my pernicious intention and to let it all go for naught, and with that purpose in mind I went to Nevsky for the last time, just to see how I was going to let it all go for naught. Suddenly, within three steps of my enemy, I unexpectedly decided, closed my eyes, and - we bumped solidly shoulder against shoulder! I did not yield an inch and passed by on a perfectly equal footing! He did not even look back and pretended not to notice: but he only pretended, I'm sure of that. To this day I'm sure of it! Of course, I got the worst of if, he was stronger, but that was not the point. The point was that I had achieved my purpose, preserved my dignity, yielded not a step, and placed myself publicly on an equal social footing with him. I returned home perfectly avenged for everything. I was in ecstasy. I exulted and sang Italian arias. Of course, I shall not describe for you what happened to me three days later; if you've read my first chapter, "Underground," you can guess for yourself. The officer was later transferred somewhere. I haven't seen him for about fourteen years. What's the sweet fellow doing these days? Whom does he crush now?

II

Then the spell of my little debauch would end, and I'd feel terribly nauseated. Repentance would come; I'd drive it away - it was too nauseating. Little by little, however, I'd get used to that as well. I could get used to anything - that is, not really get used, but somehow voluntarily consent to endure it. But I had a way out that reconciled everything, which was - to escape into "everything beautiful and lofty," in dreams, of course. I dreamed terribly, I would dream for three months at a time, shrinking into my corner, and, believe me, in those moments I bore no resemblance to that gentleman who, in the panic of his chicken heart, sat sewing a German beaver to the collar of his overcoat. I'd suddenly become a hero. And then I wouldn't even have let the six-foot lieutenant into the house. I couldn't even imagine him then. What these dreams of mine were, and how I could have been satisfied with them - is difficult to say now, but I was satisfied with them then. However, I'm somewhat satisfied with them even now. Dreams came to me with a particular sweetness and intensity after a little debauch, they came with repentance and tears, with curses and raptures. There were moments of such positive ecstasy, such happiness, that not even the slightest mockery could be felt in me, by God. There was faith, hope, love. This was the point, that I blindly believed then that through some miracle, some external circumstance, all this would suddenly extend, expand; suddenly a horizon of appropriate activity would present itself, beneficent, beautiful, and, above all, quite ready-made (precisely what, I never knew, but above all - quite ready-made), and thus I would suddenly step forth under God's heaven all but on a white horse and wreathed in laurels. A secondary role was incomprehensible to me, and that was precisely why, in reality, I so calmly filled the last. Either hero or mud, there was no in between. And that is what ruined me, because in the mud I comforted myself with being a hero at other times, and the hero covered up the mud: for an ordinary man, say, it's shameful to be muddied, but a hero is too lofty to be completely muddied, consequently one can get muddied. Remarkably, these influxes of "everything beautiful and lofty" used also to come to me during my little debauches; precisely when I was already at the very bottom, they would come just so, in isolated little flashes, as if reminding me of themselves, and yet they did not annihilate the little debauch with their appearance; on the contrary, it was as if they enlivened it by contrast and came in exactly the proportion required for a good sauce. The sauce here consisted of contradiction and suffering, of tormenting inner analysis, and all these torments and tormenticules lent my little debauch a certain piquancy, even meaning - in short, they fully fulfilled the function of a good sauce. All this was even not without some profundity. For how could I consent to a simple, direct, trite little scrivener's debauch, and to bearing all this mud on myself! What was there in it that could seduce me and lure me into the streets at night? No, sir, I had a noble loophole for everything…

But how much love, Lord, how much love I used to experience in those dreams of mine, in those "escapes into everything beautiful and lofty": though it was a fantastical love, though it was never in reality applied to anything human, there was so much of it, this love, that afterwards, in reality, I never even felt any need to apply it; that would have been an unnecessary luxury. Everything, however, would always end most happily with a lazy and rapturous transition to art - that is, to beautiful forms of being, quite ready-made, highly stolen from poets and novelists, and adapted to every possible service or demand. For example, I triumph over everyone; everyone, of course, is lying in the dust and is forced to voluntarily acknowledge all my perfections, and I forgive them all. I fall in love, being a famous poet and court chamberlain; I receive countless millions and donate them immediately to mankind, and then and there confess before all the world my disgraces, which, of course, are not mere disgraces, but contain an exceeding amount of "the beautiful and lofty," of something manfredian. 9 Everyone weeps and kisses me (what blockheads they'd be otherwise), and I go barefoot and hungry to preach new ideas and crush the retrograde under Austerlitz. 10 Then a march is struck up, an amnesty is granted, the Pope agrees to quit Rome for Brazil; then a ball is given for the whole of Italy at the Villa Borghese, now on the shores of Lake Como, since Lake Como has been transferred to Rome especially for the occasion; 11 then comes a scene in the bushes, etc., etc. - you know what I mean! You will say that it's vulgar and vile to bring all this out into the marketplace now, after so many raptures and tears, to which I myself have confessed. But why is it vile, sirs? Can you really think I'm ashamed of it all, or that it's all any stupider than whatever there may have been, gentlemen, in your own lives? And besides, believe me, some of it was by no means badly composed… And not all of it took place on Lake Como. However, you're right, it is indeed both vulgar and vile. And what's vilest is that I've now started justifying myself before you. And viler still is that I'm now making this remark. Enough, however; otherwise there will be no end to it: things will go on getting viler and viler… I was simply incapable of dreaming for longer than three months at a time, and would begin to feel an irresistible need to rush into society. To rush into society in my case meant to go and visit my department chief, Anton Antonych Setochkin. He was the only permanent acquaintance I've had in my whole life, and I'm even surprised now at this circumstance. But even to him I used to go only when such a spell came, and my dreams had reached such happiness that I needed, instantly and infallibly, to embrace people and the whole of mankind - for which I had to have available at least one really existing person. Anton Antonych, however, could be visited only on Tuesdays (his day), and consequently my need to embrace the whole of mankind always had to be adusted to a Tuesday. This Anton Antonych was located near the Five Corners, 12 on the fourth floor and in four little rooms, low-ceilinged, each one smaller than the last, of a most economical and yellow appearance. There were two daughters and their aunt, who poured tea. The daughters, one thirteen and the other fourteen, were both pug-nosed, and I was terribly abashed before them, because they constantly whispered together and giggled. The host usually sat in the study, on a leather sofa in front of the desk, along with some gray-haired guest, an official from our own or even some other department. I never saw more than two or three guests there, always the same ones. They talked about excise, negotiations in the Senate, salaries, promotions, His Excellency, ways of making oneself liked, and so on and so forth. I had patience enough to sit it out by these people like a fool for four hours on end, listening to them, myself not daring or knowing how to begin talking with them about anything. My mind would grow dull, I'd break into a sweat several times, paralysis hovered over me; but this was good and beneficial. On returning home, I'd put off for a while my desire to embrace the whole of mankind.

I had, however, another acquaintance as it were - Simonov, a former schoolfellow. No doubt there were many of my schoolfellows in Petersburg, but I did not associate with them, and had even stopped nodding to them in the street. I perhaps got myself transferred to another department so as not to be together with them and to cut off all at once the whole of that hateful childhood of mine. Curses on that school, on those terrible years of penal servitude! In short, I parted ways with my fellows as soon as I was set free. There were two or three people left whom I still greeted when we met. Among them was Simonov, who had not been distinguished for anything in our school, was quiet and equable, but in whom I distinguished a certain independence of character and even honesty. I do not even think he was so very narrow-minded. I had once had some rather bright moments with him, but they did not last long and somehow suddenly clouded over. These recollections were apparently burdensome for him, and it seemed he kept being afraid I would lapse into the former tone. I suspected that he found me quite disgusting, but I kept going to him all the same, having no sure assurance of it.

And so once, on a Thursday, unable to endure my solitude, and knowing that on Thursdays Anton Antonych's door was closed, I remembered about Simonov. On the way up to his fourth-floor apartment, I was precisely thinking that I was a burden to this gentleman and that I shouldn't be going to him. But since in the end such considerations, as if by design, always egged me on further into some ambiguous situation, I did go in. It was almost a year since I had last seen Simonov.

III

I found two more of my schoolfellows with him. They were apparently discussing an important matter. None of them paid more than the slightest attention to my coming, which was even strange, because I hadn't seen them for years. Obviously they regarded me as something like a quite ordinary fly. I had not been treated that way even at school, though everyone there hated me. Of course, I understood that they must scorn me now for the unsuccess of my career in the service and for my having gone too much to seed, walking around badly dressed, and so on - which in their eyes constituted a signboard of my incapacity and slight significance. But all the same I did not expect such a degree of scorn. Simonov was even surprised at my coming. Before, too, he had always seemed surprised at my coming. All this took me aback; I sat down in some anguish and began to listen to what they were talking about.

The conversation, a serious and even heated one, was about a farewell dinner which these gentlemen wanted to organize jointly on the very next day for their schoolfellow Zverkov, an officer in the army, who was leaving for a province far away. M'sieur Zverkov had also been my schoolfellow all the while. I had begun especially to hate him starting in the higher grades. In the lower grades he had been just a pretty, frisky boy whom everybody liked. I, however, had hated him in the lower grades as well, precisely for being a pretty and frisky boy. He was always a bad student, and got worse as he went on. Nevertheless, he graduated successfully, because he had his protectors. In his last year at school he received an inheritance, two hundred souls, 13 and since we were almost all of us poor, he even began to swagger before us. He was a vulgarian in the highest degree, but a nice fellow nonetheless, even while swaggering. And despite the external, fantastic, and highfalutin forms of honor and glory in our school, everyone, apart from a very few, minced around Zverkov, the more so the more he swaggered. They minced not for the sake of some sort of profit, but just so, because he was a man favored with the gifts of nature. Besides, it was somehow an accepted thing among us to regard Zverkov as an expert in the line of adroitness and good manners. This last particularly infuriated me. I hated the sharp, un-self-doubting tone of his voice, his admiration of his own witticisms, which came out terribly stupid, though he did have a bold tongue; I hated his handsome but silly face (for which, by the way, I'd gladly have traded my intelligent one) and his free and easy officer-of-the-forties airs. I hated the things he used to say about his future successes with women (he hadn't ventured to start up with women, not having his officer's epaulettes yet, and was looking forward to them impatiently) and about how he'd be fighting duels all the time. I remember myself, always taciturn, suddenly lighting into Zverkov when he was talking with some friends about his future gallantries once during a recess, got quite playful in the end, like a puppy in the sun, and suddenly declared that he wouldn't leave a single village maiden on his estate without his attentions, that this was his droit de seigneur, 14 and if the peasants dared to protest, he'd give them all a whipping and heap a double quitrent on the bearded canaille. Our oafs applauded, but I lit into him, and not at all out of pity for maidens or their fathers, but simply because such a little snot was being so applauded. I got the best of him that time, but Zverkov, though stupid, was gay and impudent, and therefore laughed it off, and even in such a way that, in truth, I did not quite get the best of him: the laughter remained on his side. Later he got the best of me several more times, though not with spite, but just somehow jokingly, in passing, with a laugh. I spitefully and contemptuously refused to reply. Upon graduation he tried to make a step towards me, I did not resist too much, because it flattered me, but we quickly and naturally parted ways. Later I heard about his barracksy lieutenanty successes, about his carousing. Later other rumors went around - that he was succeeding in the service. Now he no longer greeted me in the street, and I suspected he was afraid of compromising himself by greeting a person as insignificant as I was. I also saw him in the theater once, in the third circle, now wearing aiguillettes. He was mincing and twining around the daughters of some ancient general. In three short years he had gone very much to seed, though he was still quite handsome and adroit; he had become somehow puffy and was beginning to grow fat; one could see that by the age of thirty he would be completely flabby. It was for this finally departing Zverkov that our fellows wanted to give a dinner. They had constantly associated with him all those three years, though inwardly they did not consider themselves on an equal footing with him, I'm sure of that.

Of Simonov's two guests, one was Ferfichkin, from Russian-German stock - short, monkey-faced, a fool who comically mimicked everyone, my bitterest enemy even in the lower grades - a mean, impudent little fanfaron who played at being most ticklishly ambitious, though of course he was a coward at heart. He was one of those admirers of Zverkov who flirted with him for his own ends, and often borrowed money from him. Simonov's other guest, Trudolyubov, was an unremarkable person, a military type, tall, with a cold physiognomy, honest enough, but worshiping any success, and capable only of discussing promotions. He was some sort of distant relation of Zverkov's, and that, silly though it was, endowed him with a certain significance among us. He had always regarded me as nothing, but treated me, if not quite politely, at least passably.

"Well, so, if it's seven roubles each," Trudolyubov said, "that makes twenty-one for the three of us - we can have a nice dinner. Zverkov doesn't pay, of course."

"Naturally not, since we're inviting him," Simonov decided.

"Do you really think," Ferfichkin broke in presumptuously and fervently, like an impudent lackey boasting of his master's, the general's, decorations, "do you really think Zverkov will let us pay for it all? He'll accept out of delicacy, but he'll stand us to a half-dozen himself."

"And what are the four of us going to do with a half-dozen," Trudolyubov remarked, having paid attention only to the half-dozen.

"So, it's the three of us, four with Zverkov, twenty-one roubles, the Hotel de Paris, tomorrow at five o'clock," Simonov, who had been elected manager, finally concluded.

"Why twenty-one?" I said, somewhat agitated, apparently even offended. "If you count me, it's twenty-eight roubles, not twenty-one."

It seemed to me that to offer myself suddenly and so unexpectedly would even be a most handsome thing, and they would all be won over at once and look upon me with respect.

"You want to come, too?" Simonov remarked with displeasure, somehow avoiding my eyes. He knew me by heart.

It infuriated me that he knew me by heart.

"What of it, sir? I would seem to be a schoolfellow, too, and I confess I'm even offended at being left out," I began seething again.

"And where does one go looking for you?" Ferfichkin rudely butted in.

"You were never on good terms with Zverkov," Trudolyubov added, frowning. But once I had fastened on, I would not let go.

"It seems to me that no one has any right to judge about that," I retorted, in a trembling voice, as if God knows what had happened. "Maybe that's precisely why I want to now, because we weren't on good terms before."

"Well, who can understand you… and these sublimities…" Trudolyubov smirked.

"You'll be put on the list," Simonov decided, turning to me. "Tomorrow, five o'clock, the Hotel de Paris; make no mistake."

"And the money!" Ferfichkin tried to begin, in a half-whisper, nodding towards me to Simonov, but he stopped short, because even Simonov became embarrassed.

"Enough," said Trudolyubov, rising. "Let him come, if he wants to so much."

"But we have our own circle, we're friends," Ferfichkin, angry, was also reaching for his hat. "This isn't an official meeting. Maybe we don't want you at all…"

They left; Ferfichkin did not even bow to me as he went out; Trudolyubov barely nodded, without looking. Simonov, with whom I was left face to face, was in some sort of annoyed perplexity and gave me a strange glance. He did not sit down, nor did he invite me to sit down.

"Hm… yes… tomorrow, then. And will you give me the money now? Just to know for certain," he muttered in embarrassment.

I flushed, but as I flushed I recalled that I had owed Simonov fifteen roubles from time immemorial, which, however, I had never forgotten, though I also had never repaid it.

"You must see, Simonov, that I couldn't have known on coming here… and I'm very annoyed with myself for forgetting…"

"All right, all right, never mind. You can pay tomorrow at dinner. I just wanted to know… Please don't…"

He stopped short and began pacing the room with even greater annoyance. As he paced, he started planting his heels and stomping still more heavily.

"I'm not keeping you, am I?" I asked, after a two-minute silence.

"Oh, no!" he suddenly roused himself, "that is, to tell the truth - yes. You see, I've also got to stop by at… Not far from here…" he added, in a sort of apologetic voice, and somewhat ashamedly.

"Ah, my God! Why didn't you say so!" I exclaimed, grabbing my cap, but with an appearance of remarkable nonchalance, which flew down to me from God knows where.

"It's not far, really…Just a couple of steps…" Simonov kept saying as he saw me to the entryway with a bustling air that did not become him at all. "Tomorrow, then, at five o'clock sharp!" he called out as I went down the stairs: he was so pleased I was leaving. I, however, was furious.

"What possessed me, what possessed me to pop up like that!" I gnashed my teeth, striding along the street. "And for that scoundrel, that little pig of a Zverkov! I mustn't go, of course; just spit on it, of course; I'm not bound, am I? Tomorrow I'll send Simonov a note…"

But what made me furious was that I knew I would certainly go; I would go on purpose; and the more tactless, the more improper it was for me to go, the sooner I would go.

And there was even a positive obstacle to my going: I had no money. All I had lying there was nine roubles. But of that, seven had to go the next day for the wages of Apollon, my servant, who lived with me for seven roubles a month, grub not included.

And not to pay him his wages was impossible, given Apollon's character. But of this dog, this thorn in my side, I will speak some other time.

Nevertheless, I knew that even so I would not pay him, but would certainly go.

That night I had the most hideous dreams. No wonder: all evening I was oppressed by recollections of the penal servitude of my school years, and I could not get rid of them. I had been tucked away in that school by distant relations whose dependent I was and of whom I had no notion thereafter - tucked away, orphaned, already beaten down by their reproaches, already pensive, taciturn, gazing wildly about at everything. My school fellows met me with spiteful and merciless derision, because I was not like any of them. But I could not endure derision; I could not get along so cheaply as they got along with each other. I immediately began to hate them, and shut myself away from everyone in timorous, wounded, and inordinate pride. Their crudeness outraged me. They laughed cynically at my face, my ungainly figure; and yet how stupid their own faces were! In our school facial expressions degenerated and would become somehow especially stupid. So many beautiful children came to us. A few years later it was disgusting even to look at them. Already at the age of sixteen I gloomily marveled at them; even then I was amazed at the pettiness of their thinking, the stupidity of their pastimes, games, conversations. They had so little understanding of the most essential things, so little interest in the most impressive, startling subjects, that I began, willy-nilly, to regard them as beneath me. It was not injured vanity that prompted me to do so, and for God's sake don't come creeping at me with those banal objections that one is sick of to the point of nausea - "that I was only dreaming, while they already understood real life." They understood nothing, no real life, and I swear it was this in them that outraged me most of all. On the contrary, they took the most obvious, glaring reality in a fantastically stupid way, and were already accustomed to worshiping success alone. Everything that was just, but humiliated and downtrodden, they laughed at disgracefully and hardheartedly. They regarded rank as intelligence; at the age of sixteen they were already talking about cushy billets. Of course, much of this came from stupidity, from the bad examples that had ceaselessly surrounded their childhood and adolescence. They were depraved to the point of monstrosity. To be sure, here, too, there was more of the external, more of an assumed cynicism; to be sure, youthfulness and a certain freshness could be glimpsed in them even through the depravity; but even this freshness was unattractive in them and showed itself as a sort of knavery. I hated them terribly, though I was perhaps worse than they were. They paid me back in kind and did not conceal their loathing for me. But I no longer had any wish for their love; on the contrary, I constantly thirsted for their humiliation. To rid myself of their derision, I purposely began to study as hard as I could and worked my way into the number of the best. This made an impression. Besides, they began little by little to realize that I had by then read such books as they were unable to read, and understood such things (not part of our special course) as they had never even heard of. This they regarded wildly and derisively, but morally they submitted, the more so as even the teachers paid attention to me in this respect. The derision stopped, but the animosity remained, and cold, strained relations set in. Towards the end I myself could not stand it: as I grew older, a need for people, for friends, developed. I tried to start getting closer with some; but the attempt always came out unnaturally and would simply end of itself. I also once had a friend. But I was already a despot in my soul; I wanted to have unlimited power over his soul; I wanted to instill in him a contempt for his surrounding milieu; I demanded of him a haughty and final break with that milieu. I frightened him with my passionate friendship; I drove him to tears, to convulsions; he was a naive, self-giving soul; but once he had given himself wholly to me, I immediately started to hate him and pushed him away - as if I had needed him only to gain a victory over him, only to bring him into subjection. But I could not be victorious over everyone; my friend was also not like any of them, and represented the rarest exception. The first thing I did upon leaving school was quit the special service for which I had been intended, in order to break all ties, to curse the past and bury it in the dust… And the devil knows why, after that, I dragged myself to this Simonov!…

In the morning I roused myself early, I jumped out of bed in agitation, as if all this was going to start happening right away. But then I did believe that some radical break in my life was coming and could not fail to come that very day. It may have been lack of habit or something, but all my life, when faced with any external event, be it ever so small, I always thought that right then some radical break in my life was going to come. Nevertheless, I went to work as usual, but slipped away two hours early to go home and get ready. The main thing, I thought, is that I mustn't be the first to arrive, or they'll think I'm all too delighted. But there were thousands of such main things, and they all agitated me to the point of impotence. I polished my boots a second time with my own hands; for the life of him Apollon would not have polished them twice in one day, finding it inordinate. I polished them, therefore, having stolen the brushes from the entryway so that he would not somehow notice and afterwards begin to despise me. Then I carefully inspected my clothes and found that everything was old, shabby, worn out. I had indeed become too slovenly. My uniform was perhaps in good condition, but I really couldn't go to dinner in my uniform. And the main thing was that on my trousers, right on the knee, there was a huge yellow spot. I could sense already that this spot alone would rob me of nine-tenths of my dignity. I also knew that it was very mean to think so. "But I can't be bothered with thinking now; now comes reality," I thought, and my heart sank. I also knew perfectly well, even then, that I was monstrously exaggerating all these facts; but there was nothing to be done: I could no longer control myself, I was shaking with fever. In despair I pictured how coldly and condescendingly that "scoundrel" Zverkov would meet me; with what dull, all-invincible contempt the dullard Trudolyubov would look at me; how nastily and impudently that little snot Ferfichkin would titter at my expense, sucking up to Zverkov; how perfectly Simonov would understand it all in himself, and how he would despise me for the meanness of my vanity and faintheartedness; and, the main thing - how measly, non- literary, commonplace it was all going to be. Of course, it would be best not to go at all. But that was more impossible than anything else: once I began to be drawn, I used to be drawn in all the way, over my head. Afterwards I'd have been taunting myself for the rest of my life: "So you turned coward, turned coward before reality, that's what you did, you turned coward!" On the contrary, I passionately wanted to prove to all that

"riffraff" that I was by no means the coward I made myself out to be. More than that: in the strongest paroxysm of cowardly fever, I dreamed of getting the best of them, winning them over, carrying them away, making them love me - if only for my "lofty mind and indubitable wit." They would drop Zverkov, he would sit on the sidelines, silent and ashamed, and I would crush him. Afterwards I would perhaps make peace with him, and we would pledge eternal friendship, yet the most bitter and offensive thing for me was that I knew even then, knew fully and certainly, that in fact I needed none of that, and in fact I had no wish to crush, subject, or attract them, and would be the first not to give a penny for the whole outcome, even if I achieved it. Oh, how I prayed to God for that day to pass more quickly! In inexpressible anguish I kept going to the window, opening the vent, and peering into the dull darkness of thickly falling wet snow…

At last my wretched little wall clock hissed five. I grabbed my hat and, trying not to glance at Apollon - who since morning had been waiting to receive his wages from me, but in his pride refused to speak first - slipped past him out the door, and in a coach hired for the purpose with my last fifty kopecks, drove up like a grand gentleman to the Hotel de Paris.

IV

I had already known the evening before that I would be the first to arrive. But primacy was no longer the point. Not only were none of them there, but I even had difficulty finding our room. The table was not quite laid yet. What did it mean? After much questioning, I finally got out of the waiters that the dinner had been ordered for six o'clock, not five. This was confirmed in the bar. I was even ashamed to be asking. It was only five twenty-five. If they had changed the time, they ought in any case to have informed me; that's what the city mail is for; and not to have subjected me to "disgrace" both in my own and… be it only the waiters' eyes. I sat down; a waiter began laying the table; in his presence it felt somehow still more offensive. By six o'clock, in addition to the lighted lamps, candles were brought into the room. It had not occurred to the waiter, however, to bring them when I arrived. In the next room two customers, gloomy, angry-looking, and silent, were having dinner at separate tables. In one of the farther rooms it was very noisy; there was even shouting; the guffaws of a whole bunch of people could be heard; some nasty French squeals could be heard: it was a dinner with ladies. Quite nauseating, in short. Rarely have I spent a nastier moment, so that when, at exactly six o'clock, they all came in together, I was glad of them for the first moment as of some sort of deliverers, and almost forgot that I ought to look offended.

Zverkov came at the head of them, obviously the leader. Both he and they were laughing; but on seeing me Zverkov assumed a dignified air, approached unhurriedly, bending slightly, as if coquettishly, at the waist, and gave me his hand benignly, but not very, with a certain cautious, almost senatorial politeness, as if by offering me his hand he were protecting himself from something. I had been imagining, on the contrary, that as soon as he walked in he would start laughing his former laugh, shrill, punctuated by little shrieks, and from the first there would be his flat jokes and witticisms. I had been preparing myself for them since the previous evening, but I by no means expected such down-the-nose, such excellential benignity. So he now fully considered himself immeasurably superior to me in all respects? If he simply wanted to offend me with this senatorial air, it was not so bad, I thought; I'd be able to get back at him somehow. But what if indeed, without any wish to offend me, the little idea had seriously crept into his sheep's noddle that he was immeasurably superior to me, and could look at me in no other way than patronizingly? The supposition alone left me breathless.

"I learned with surprise of your wish to participate with us," he began, lisping and simpering and drawing the words out, something that had never happened with him before. "We somehow keep missing each other. You shy away from us.

More's the pity. We're not so terrible as you think. Well, sir, in any case I'm gla-a-ad to rene-e-ew…"

And he casually turned to place his hat on the windowsill.

"Have you been waiting long?" asked Trudolyubov.

"I arrived at exactly five o'clock, as I was appointed yesterday," I answered loudly and with an irritation that promised an imminent explosion.

"Didn't you inform him that the time had been changed?" Trudolyubov turned to Simonov.

"I didn't. I forgot," the latter answered, but without any repentance, and, not even apologizing to me, went to make arrangements for the hors d'oeuvres.

"So you've been here for an hour already, ah, poor fellow!" Zverkov exclaimed derisively, because according to his notions it must indeed have been terribly funny. Following him, the scoundrel Ferfichkin broke up, in his scoundrelly voice, yelping like a little mutt. He, too, thought my situation terribly funny and embarrassing.

"It's not funny in the least!" I cried to Ferfichkin, growing more and more irritated. "It's other people's fault, not mine. They neglected to inform me. It - it - it's… simply absurd."

"Not only absurd, but something else as well," Trudolyubov grumbled, naively interceding for me. "You're too mild. Sheer discourtesy. Not deliberate, of course. But how is it that Simonov… hm!"

"If that had been played on me," observed Ferfichkin,

"I'd…"

"But you should have ordered yourself something," Zverkov interrupted, "or just asked to have dinner without waiting."

"You must agree that I could have done so without any permission," I snapped. "If I waited, it was…"

"Let's be seated, gentlemen," cried the entering Simonov, "everything's ready; I can answer for the champagne, it's perfectly chilled…I didn't know your address, how was one to find you?" he suddenly turned to me, but again somehow without looking at me. He obviously had something against me. He must have changed his mind since yesterday.

Everyone sat down; I, too, sat down. The table was round. Trudolyubov ended up on my left, Simonov on my right. Zverkov sat down across the table, and Ferfichkin next to him, between him and Trudolyubov.

"So-o-o, you're… in the department?" Zverkov continued to occupy himself with me. Seeing that I was embarrassed, he seriously imagined I must be treated benignly and, so to speak, encouraged. "What, does he want me to throw a bottle at him or something?" I thought, furious. From lack of habit, I was becoming irritated with a somehow unnatural rapidity.

"In the -y office," I answered curtly, staring at my plate.

"And… you fffind it profffitable? Tell me, ple-e-ease, what wa-a-as it that made you leave your former position?"

"It wa-a-a-as that I felt like leaving my former position," I drawled three times longer, now losing almost all control of myself. Ferfichkin snorted. Simonov looked at me ironically; Trudolyubov stopped eating and began studying me with curiosity.

Zverkov winced, but declined to notice.

"We-e-ell, and how's your keep?"

"What keep?"

"Your sssalary, that is."

"Quite the examiner, aren't you!"

However, I told him straight out what my salary was. I was blushing terribly.

"Not a fortune," Zverkov observed pompously.

"No, sir, can't go dining in cafe-restaurants!" Ferfichkin added impudently.

"In my opinion, it's even downright poor," Trudolyubov observed seriously.

"And how thin you've grown, how changed… since…" Zverkov added, not without venom now, studying me and my attire with a sort of insolent regret.

"Oh, come, stop embarrassing him," Ferfichkin exclaimed, tittering.

"My dear sir, I'll have you know that I am not embarrassed," I finally exploded, "do you hear, sir! I am having dinner here, in a 'cafe-restaurant,' at my own expense, my own and no one else's, make a note of that, Monsieur Ferfichkin."

"Wha-a-at? And who here is not dining at his own expense? If you mean to…" Ferfichkin fastened on, turning red as a lobster and staring me furiously in the face.

"We-e-ell," I replied, feeling that I had gone too far, "I suppose we'd better occupy ourselves with more intelligent conversation."

"So you intend to display your intelligence?"

"Don't worry, that would be quite superfluous here."

"You just keep cackling away, eh, my dear sir? Haven't lost your mind, by any chance, in that de pot ment of yours?"

"Enough, gentlemen, enough!" Zverkov cried almightily.

"How stupid this is!" growled Simonov.

"Stupid indeed; we gathered as a company of friends to see a good school chum off on his journey, and you go keeping score," Trudolyubov began to speak, rudely addressing me alone. "You invited yourself yesterday, so don't disrupt the general harmony…"

"Enough, enough," Zverkov shouted. "Stop, gentlemen, this won't do. Better let me tell you how I almost got married two days ago…"

And there followed some lampoon about how the gentleman almost got married two days before. There was, however, not a word in it about marriage, but generals, colonels, and even court dignitaries kept flitting through the story, with Zverkov among them and all but at their head. Approving laughter began; Ferfichkin even let out little squeals.

They all dropped me, and I sat crushed and annihilated.

"Lord, is this any company for me!" I thought. "And what a fool I made of myself before them! However, I let Ferfichkin go too far. These oafs think they've done me an honor by giving me a place at their table; they don't realize that it's I, I, who am doing them an honor, and not they me! 'How thin! Such clothes!' Oh, cursed trousers! Zverkov has already noticed the yellow spot on the knee… But what's the point! Get up from the table, now, this minute, take your hat, and simply leave without saying a word… Out of scorn! And tomorrow, if they like, a duel. Scoundrels. Am I going to be sorry about seven roubles? Maybe they'll think… Devil take it! I'm not sorry about the seven roubles! I'm leaving this minute!…"

Of course, I stayed.

I drank Lafite and sherry by the glassful in my grief. From lack of habit I was quickly getting drunk, and as my drunkenness increased, so did my vexation. I suddenly wanted to insult them all in the boldest fashion, and only then leave. To seize the right moment and show myself; let them say: he's funny, but no dummy… and… and… in short, devil take them.

I insolently looked around at them all with bleary eyes. But it was as if they had already forgotten me entirely… They were having a noisy, loud, merry time for themselves. Zverkov kept on talking. I began to listen. Zverkov was telling about some magnificent lady whom he had finally driven to a declaration (naturally he was lying like a horse), and that he had been especially helped in this matter by his intimate friend, some princeling named Kolya, a hussar, owner of three thousand souls.

"And yet there's no sign of this Kolya, owner of three thousand souls, at your farewell party," I suddenly butted in to the conversation. For a moment everyone fell silent.

"So, now you're drunk," Trudolyubov finally consented to notice me, casting a sidelong, contemptuous glance in my direction. Zverkov silently studied me as if I were a little bug. I lowered my eyes. Simonov hurriedly began pouring champagne.

Trudolyubov raised his glass; everyone did the same, except for me.

"Your health, and a good journey!" he cried to Zverkov. "To those old years, gentlemen, to our future! Hurrah!"

Everyone drank and fell to kissing Zverkov. I did not budge; the full glass stood untouched before me.

"You're not going to drink?" Trudolyubov, having lost all patience, roared, turning to me threateningly.

"I wish to make a speech on my own part, separately… and then I will drink, Mr Trudolyubov."

"Disgusting little stinker," Simonov growled.

I straightened up on my chair and feverishly took my glass, preparing for something extraordinary, and still not knowing myself precisely what I was going to say.

" Silence!" Ferfichkin called out in French. "Here comes all kinds of intelligence!" Zverkov listened very seriously, realizing what was going on.

"Lieutenant Zverkov, sir," I began, "let it be known to you that I hate phrases, phrase-mongers, and tight-fitting waists… That is the first point, and the second will follow forthwith."

Everyone stirred greatly.

"Second point: I hate gallantry and gallantizers. Especially gallantizers!

"Third point: I love truth, sincerity, and honesty," I went on almost mechanically, because I was already beginning to go numb with horror, unable to understand how I could be speaking this way… "I love thought, M'sieur Zverkov; I love true friendship, on an equal footing, and not… hm… I love… However, why not? I, too, shall drink to your health, M'sieur Zverkov. Charm the Circassian girls, shoot the enemies of the fatherland, and… and… To your health, M'sieur Zverkov!"

Zverkov rose from his chair, bowed to me, and said:

"Much obliged to you."

He was terribly offended, and even turned pale.

"Devil take it," roared Trudolyubov, banging his fist on the table.

"No, sir, it's a punch in the mug for that!" Ferfichkin shrieked.

"He ought to be thrown out!" Simonov growled.

"Not a word, gentlemen, not a move!" Zverkov cried solemnly, checking the general indignation. "I thank you all, but I myself am quite capable of proving to him how much I value his words."

"Mr Ferfichkin, tomorrow you will give me satisfaction for your present words!" I said loudly, pompously addressing Ferfichkin.

"You mean a duel, sir? At your pleasure," the man answered, but I must have been so ridiculous with my challenge, and it was so unsuited to my figure, that everyone, and finally even Ferfichkin, simply fell over laughing.

"Yes, drop him, of course! He's completely drunk now!" Trudolyubov said with loathing.

"I'll never forgive myself for putting him on the list!" Simonov growled again.

"Now's the time to up and hurl a bottle at them all," I thought, took the bottle, and… poured myself a full glass.

"… No, I'd better sit it out to the end!" I went on thinking. "You'd be glad, gentlemen, if I left. No chance of that. I'll purposely sit and drink to the end, as a sign that I attach not the slightest importance to you. I'll sit and drink, because this is a pot-house, and I paid good money to get in. I'll sit and drink, because I regard you as pawns, nonexistent pawns. I'll sit and drink… and sing, if I like, yes, sirs, and sing, because I have the right… to sing… hm."

But I did not sing. I simply tried not to look at any of them; I assumed the most independent attitudes and waited impatiently for them to start talking to me first. But, alas, they didn't. And, oh, how I wished, how I wished at that moment to make peace with them! It struck eight o'clock, and finally nine. They moved from the table to the sofa. Zverkov sprawled on the couch, placing one foot on a little round table. The wine was also transferred there. Indeed, he did stand them to three bottles of his own. He did not offer me any, of course. Everyone sat clustered around him on the sofa. They listened to him with all but reverence. One could see he was loved. "But why? Why?" I kept thinking to myself. From time to time they would get into drunken raptures and kiss each other. They talked about the Caucasus, about what true passion is, about gambling, about profitable posts in the service; about how big was the income of the hussar Podkharzhevsky, whom none of them knew personally, and rejoiced that it was very big; about the remarkable beauty and grace of Princess D-, whom none of them had ever even seen; finally it came to Shakespeare being immortal.

I was smiling contemptuously and pacing the other side of the room, directly opposite the sofa, along the wall, from the table to the stove and back. I wished with all my might to show that I could do without them; and yet I purposely clumped with my boots, coming down hard on the heels. But all in vain. They paid no attention. I had patience enough to pace like that, right in front of them, from eight o'clock to eleven, in one and the same space, from the table to the stove, and from the stove back to the table. "I'm just pacing, and no one can tell me not to." A waiter who kept coming into the room paused several times to look at me; my head was spinning from so much turning; at moments I thought I was delirious. I sweated and dried out three times in those three hours. Every once in a while a thought pierced my heart with the deepest, most poisonous pain: that ten years, twenty years, forty years would pass, and even after forty years I would still recall with revulsion and humiliation these dirtiest, most ridiculous, and most terrible minutes of my entire life. For a man to humiliate himself more shamelessly and more voluntarily was really impossible, I fully, fully understood that, and still I went on pacing from the table to the stove and back. "Oh, if you only knew what feelings and thoughts I'm capable of, and how developed I am!" I thought at moments, mentally addressing the sofa where my enemies were sitting. But my enemies behaved as if I were not even in the room. Once, once only, they turned to me - namely, when Zverkov began talking about Shakespeare, and I suddenly guffawed contemptuously. I snorted so affectedly and nastily that they all broke off the conversation at once and silently watched me for about two minutes, seriously, without laughing, as I paced along the wall from table to stove and paid no attention to them. But nothing came of it; they did not start talking to me, and after two minutes dropped me again. It struck eleven.

"Gentlemen," cried Zverkov, rising from the sofa, "now let us all go there."

"Right, right!" the others began to say.

I turned sharply to Zverkov. I was so worn out, so broken, that I had to finish it even if it killed me! I was in a fever; my hair, wet with sweat, stuck to my forehead and temples.

"Zverkov! I ask your forgiveness," I said, abruptly and resolutely, "yours too, Ferfichkin, and everyone's, everyone's, I've offended everyone!"

"Aha! So dueling's not your sport!" Ferfichkin hissed venomously.

A sharp pain went through my heart.

"No, I'm not afraid of a duel, Ferfichkin! I'm ready to fight you tomorrow, even after a reconciliation. I even insist on it, and you cannot refuse me. I want to prove to you that I'm not afraid of a duel. You'll have the first shot, and I'll shoot into the air."

"He's indulging himself," remarked Simonov.

"Downright crackbrained!" echoed Trudolyubov.

"Let us pass, why're you standing in the way!… What do you want?" Zverkov responded contemptuously. Their faces were red; their eyes were shiny: they had drunk a lot.

"I ask your friendship, Zverkov, I offended you, but…"

"Y-y-you? Offended m-m-me? I'll have you know, my dear sir, that you could never under any circumstances offend me!"

"That's enough out of you. Step aside!" Trudolyubov clinched. Lets go.

"Olympia's mine, gentlemen, it's agreed!" cried Zverkov.

"No objections! No objections!" they answered, laughing.

I stood there spat upon. The bunch noisily left the room. Trudolyubov struck up some stupid song. Simonov stayed behind for a tiny moment to tip the waiters. I suddenly went over to him.

"Simonov! Give me six roubles!" I said, resolutely and desperately.

He looked at me in extreme astonishment, his eyes somehow dull. He, too, was drunk.

"You want to go there with us, too?"

"Yes!"

"I have no money!" he snapped, grinned scornfully, and started out of the room.

I seized him by 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'm asking! Everything depends on it, my whole future, all my plans…"

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

"Take it, if you're so shameless!" he said pitilessly, and ran to catch up with them.

I remained alone for a moment. Disorder, leftovers, a broken wine glass on the floor, spilt wine, cigarette butts, drunkenness and delirium in my head, tormenting anguish in my heart, and, finally, the servant, who had seen everything and heard everything, and kept peeking curiously into my eyes.

"There!" I cried out. "Either they'll all fall on their knees, embrace my legs, and beg for my friendship, or… or I'll slap Zverkov's face!"

V

Here it is, here it is at last, the encounter with reality," I muttered, rushing headlong down the stairs. "This is no longer the Pope leaving Rome and going to Brazil; this is no longer a ball on Lake Como!"

"What a scoundrel you are," raced through my head, "to laugh at that now!"

"What of it!" I cried, answering myself. "All is lost now!"

Their trail was already cold; but no matter: I knew where they had gone.

By the porch stood a lonely jack, a night coachman, in a homespun coat all dusted with the still-falling wet and as if warm snow. It was steamy and stuffy. His shaggy little piebald nag was also all dusted with snow, and was coughing - I very much remember that. I rushed to the bast-covered sled; but as I raised my foot to get in, the recollection of the way Simonov had just given me the six roubles cut me down, and I dropped into the sled like a sack.

"No! Much must be done to redeem it all!" I cried out, "but I will redeem it, or perish on the spot this very night! Drive!"

We set off. A whole whirlwind was spinning in my head.

"Beg for my friendship on their knees - that they won't do. It's a mirage, a vulgar mirage, revolting, romantic, and fantastic; another ball on Lake Como. And therefore I must slap Zverkov's face! It's my duty. And so, it's decided; I'm flying now to slap his face."

"Faster!"

The jack started snapping the reins.

"I'll do it as soon as I walk in. Ought I to say a few words first, as a preface to the slap? No! I'll just walk in and slap him. They'll all be sitting in the drawing room, and he'll be on the sofa with Olympia. Cursed Olympia! She laughed at my face once and refused me. I'll pull Olympia by the hair, and Zverkov by the ears! No, better by one ear, and by that ear I'll lead him around the whole room. They'll probably all start beating me and kick me out. It's even certain. Let them! Still, I slapped' him first: it was my initiative; and by the code of honor - that's everything; he's branded now, and no beating can wash away that slap, but only a duel. He'll have to fight. Yes, and let them beat me now. Let them, ignoble as they are! Trudolyubov especially will do the beating - he's so strong; Ferfichkin will fasten on from the side, and certainly grab my hair, that's sure. But let them, let them! I'm ready for it. Their sheep's noddles will finally be forced to grasp the tragic in it all! As they're dragging me to the door I'll cry out to them that in fact they're not worth my little finger."

"Faster, coachman, faster!" I shouted to the jack. He even jumped and swung his whip. For I shouted quite wildly.

"We'll fight at dawn, that's settled. It's all over with the department. Ferfichkin said de pot ment earlier instead of department. But where to get the pistols? Nonsense! I'll take an advance on my salary and buy them. And the powder, and the bullets? That's the second's affair. But how will I manage it all before dawn? And where will I find a second? I have no acquaintances… Nonsense!" I cried, whirling myself up even more, "nonsense! The first passer-by I speak to in the street is duty-bound to be my second, just like pulling a drowning man from the water. The most eccentric situations must be allowed for. Were I to ask even the director himself to be my second tomorrow, he, too, would have to agree out of knightly feelings alone, and keep the secret! Anton Antonych…"

The thing was that at the same moment I could see, more clearly and vividly than anyone else in the entire world, the whole, most odious absurdity of my suppositions, and the whole other side of the coin, but…

"Faster, coachman, faster, you rogue!"

"Eh, master!" said the backbone of the nation.

I suddenly felt cold all over.

"And wouldn't it be better… better… to go straight home now? Oh, my God! Why, why did I invite myself to this dinner yesterday! But no, impossible! And that three-hour stroll from table to stove? No, they, they and no one else, must pay me for that stroll! They must wash away that dishonor!"

"Faster!"

"And what if they take me to the police? Would they dare? They'd be afraid of a scandal. And what if Zverkov should refuse the duel out of contempt? That's even certain; but then I'll prove to them… Then I'll rush to the posting-house as he's leaving tomorrow, I'll grab him by the leg, I'll tear his overcoat off as he's getting into the coach. I'll fasten my teeth on his hand, I'll bite him. 'See, all of you, what a desperate man can be driven to!' Let him beat me on the head, and the rest of them from behind. I'll cry out to all the public: 'See, here's a young pup going off to charm the Circassian girls with my spit on his face!'

"After that, of course, everything's over! The department has vanished from the face of the earth. I'll be seized, I'll be taken to court, I'll be thrown out of work, put in prison, sent to Siberia, exiled. Who cares! Fifteen years later I'll drag myself after him, in rags, a beggar, when I'm let out of prison. I'll find him somewhere in a provincial capital. He'll be married and happy. He'll have a grown-up daughter… I'll say: 'Look, monster, look at my sunken cheeks and my rags! I lost everything -career, happiness, art, science, a beloved woman - and all because of you. Here are the pistols. I've come to discharge my pistol, and… and I forgive you.' Here I'll fire into the air, and - no more will be heard of me…"