Notes From Underground Read online

remained angrily and contemptuously silent and would not answer him.

  When we left school he made advances to me; I did not rebuff them, for I

  was flattered, but we soon parted and quite naturally. Afterwards I heard

  of his barrack-room success as a lieutenant, and of the fast life he was

  leading. Then there came other rumours--of his successes in the service.

  By then he had taken to cutting me in the street, and I suspected

  that he was afraid of compromising himself by greeting a personage as

  insignificant as me. I saw him once in the theatre, in the third tier of

  boxes. By then he was wearing shoulder-straps. He was twisting and

  twirling about, ingratiating himself with the daughters of an ancient

  General. In three years he had gone off considerably, though he was still

  rather handsome and adroit. One could see that by the time he was thirty

  he would be corpulent. So it was to this Zverkov that my schoolfellows

  were going to give a dinner on his departure. They had kept up with him

  for those three years, though privately they did not consider themselves

  on an equal footing with him, I am convinced of that.

  Of Simonov's two visitors, one was Ferfitchkin, a Russianised German

  --a little fellow with the face of a monkey, a blockhead who was always

  deriding everyone, a very bitter enemy of mine from our days in the lower

  forms--a vulgar, impudent, swaggering fellow, who affected a most sensitive

  feeling of personal honour, though, of course, he was a wretched

  little coward at heart. He was one of those worshippers of Zverkov who

  made up to the latter from interested motives, and often borrowed money

  from him. Simonov's other visitor, Trudolyubov, was a person in no way

  remarkable--a tall young fellow, in the army, with a cold face, fairly

  honest, though he worshipped success of every sort, and was only capable

  of thinking of promotion. He was some sort of distant relation of

  Zverkov's, and this, foolish as it seems, gave him a certain importance

  among us. He always thought me of no consequence whatever; his

  behaviour to me, though not quite courteous, was tolerable.

  "Well, with seven roubles each," said Trudolyubov, "twenty-one

  roubles between the three of us, we ought to be able to get a good dinner.

  Zverkov, of course, won't pay."

  "Of course not, since we are inviting him," Simonov decided.

  "Can you imagine," Ferfitchkin interrupted hotly and conceitedly, like

  some insolent flunkey boasting of his master the General's decorations,

  "can you imagine that Zverkov will let us pay alone? He will accept from

  delicacy, but he will order half a dozen bottles of champagne."

  "Do we want half a dozen for the four of us?" observed Trudolyubov,

  taking notice only of the half dozen.

  "So the three of us, with Zverkov for the fourth, twenty-one roubles, at

  the Hotel de Paris at five o'clock tomorrow," Simonov, who had been

  asked to make the arrangements, concluded finally.

  "How twenty-one roubles?" I asked in some agitation, with a show of

  being offended; "if you count me it will not be twenty-one, but

  twenty-eight roubles."

  It seemed to me that to invite myself so suddenly and unexpectedly

  would be positively graceful, and that they would all be conquered at

  once and would look at me with respect.

  "Do you want to join, too?" Simonov observed, with no appearance of

  pleasure, seeming to avoid looking at me. He knew me through and through.

  It infuriated me that he knew me so thoroughly.

  "Why not? I am an old schoolfellow of his, too, I believe, and I

  must own I feel hurt that you have left me out," I said, boiling over again.

  "And where were we to find you?" Ferfitchkin put in roughly.

  "You never were on good terms with Zverkov," Trudolyubov added, frowning.

  But I had already clutched at the idea and would not give it up.

  "It seems to me that no one has a right to form an opinion upon that," I

  retorted in a shaking voice, as though something tremendous had happened.

  "Perhaps that is just my reason for wishing it now, that I have not

  always been on good terms with him."

  "Oh, there's no making you out ... with these refinements,"

  Trudolyubov jeered.

  "We'll put your name down," Simonov decided, addressing me.

  "Tomorrow at five-o'clock at the Hotel de Paris."

  "What about the money?" Ferfitchkin began in an undertone, indicating

  me to Simonov, but he broke off, for even Simonov was embarrassed.

  "That will do," said Trudolyubov, getting up. "If he wants to come so

  much, let him."

  "But it's a private thing, between us friends," Ferfitchkin said crossly,

  as he, too, picked up his hat. "It's not an official gathering."

  "We do not want at all, perhaps ..."

  They went away. Ferfitchkin did not greet me in any way as he went

  out, Trudolyubov barely nodded. Simonov, with whom I was left TETE-A-TETE,

  was in a state of vexation and perplexity, and looked at me queerly.

  He did not sit down and did not ask me to.

  "H'm ... yes ... tomorrow, then. Will you pay your subscription

  now? I just ask so as to know," he muttered in embarrassment.

  I flushed crimson, as I did so I remembered that I had owed Simonov

  fifteen roubles for ages--which I had, indeed, never forgotten, though I

  had not paid it.

  "You will understand, Simonov, that I could have no idea when I came

  here .... I am very much vexed that I have forgotten ...."

  "All right, all right, that doesn't matter. You can pay tomorrow after the

  dinner. I simply wanted to know .... Please don't ..."

  He broke off and began pacing the room still more vexed. As he walked

  he began to stamp with his heels.

  "Am I keeping you?" I asked, after two minutes of silence.

  "Oh!" he said, starting, "that is--to be truthful--yes. I have to go and

  see someone ... not far from here," he added in an apologetic voice,

  somewhat abashed.

  "My goodness, why didn't you say so?" I cried, seizing my cap, with an

  astonishingly free-and-easy air, which was the last thing I should have

  expected of myself.

  "It's close by ... not two paces away," Simonov repeated, accompanying

  me to the front door with a fussy air which did not suit him at all. "So

  five o'clock, punctually, tomorrow," he called down the stairs after me.

  He was very glad to get rid of me. I was in a fury.

  "What possessed me, what possessed me to force myself upon them?" I

  wondered, grinding my teeth as I strode along the street, "for a scoundrel,

  a pig like that Zverkov! Of course I had better not go; of course, I must

  just snap my fingers at them. I am not bound in any way. I'll send

  Simonov a note by tomorrow's post ...."

  But what made me furious was that I knew for certain that I should go,

  that I should make a point of going; and the more tactless, the more

  unseemly my going would be, the more certainly I would go.

  And there was a positive obstacle to my going: I had no money. All I

  had was nine roubles, I had to give seven of that to my servant, Apollon,

  for his monthly wages. That was all I paid him--he had to keep himself.
<
br />   Not to pay him was impossible, considering his character. But I will

  talk about that fellow, about that plague of mine, another time.

  However, I knew I should go and should not pay him his wages.

  That night I had the most hideous dreams. No wonder; all the evening

  I had been oppressed by memories of my miserable days at school, and I

  could not shake them off. I was sent to the school by distant relations,

  upon whom I was dependent and of whom I have heard nothing since--

  they sent me there a forlorn, silent boy, already crushed by their reproaches,

  already troubled by doubt, and looking with savage distrust at

  everyone. My schoolfellows met me with spiteful and merciless jibes

  because I was not like any of them. But I could not endure their taunts; I

  could not give in to them with the ignoble readiness with which they gave

  in to one another. I hated them from the first, and shut myself away from

  everyone in timid, wounded and disproportionate pride. Their coarseness

  revolted me. They laughed cynically at my face, at my clumsy

  figure; and yet what stupid faces they had themselves. In our school the

  boys' faces seemed in a special way to degenerate and grow stupider. How

  many fine-looking boys came to us! In a few years they became repulsive.

  Even at sixteen I wondered at them morosely; even then I was struck by

  the pettiness of their thoughts, the stupidity of their pursuits, their games,

  their conversations. They had no understanding of such essential things,

  they took no interest in such striking, impressive subjects, that I could

  not help considering them inferior to myself. It was not wounded vanity

  that drove me to it, and for God's sake do not thrust upon me your

  hackneyed remarks, repeated to nausea, that "I was only a dreamer,"

  while they even then had an understanding of life. They understood

  nothing, they had no idea of real life, and I swear that that was what

  made me most indignant with them. On the contrary, the most obvious,

  striking reality they accepted with fantastic stupidity and even at that time

  were accustomed to respect success. Everything that was just, but oppressed

  and looked down upon, they laughed at heartlessly and shamefully.

  They took rank for intelligence; even at sixteen they were already

  talking about a snug berth. Of course, a great deal of it was due to their

  stupidity, to the bad examples with which they had always been surrounded

  in their childhood and boyhood. They were monstrously depraved.

  Of course a great deal of that, too, was superficial and an

  assumption of cynicism; of course there were glimpses of youth and

  freshness even in their depravity; but even that freshness was not attractive,

  and showed itself in a certain rakishness. I hated them horribly,

  though perhaps I was worse than any of them. They repaid me in the

  same way, and did not conceal their aversion for me. But by then I did not

  desire their affection: on the contrary, I continually longed for their

  humiliation. To escape from their derision I purposely began to make all

  the progress I could with my studies and forced my way to the very top.

  This impressed them. Moreover, they all began by degrees to grasp that I

  had already read books none of them could read, and understood things

  (not forming part of our school curriculum) of which they had not even

  heard. They took a savage and sarcastic view of it, but were morally

  impressed, especially as the teachers began to notice me on those

  grounds. The mockery ceased, but the hostility remained, and cold and

  strained relations became permanent between us. In the end I could not

  put up with it: with years a craving for society, for friends, developed in

  me. I attempted to get on friendly terms with some of my schoolfellows;

  but somehow or other my intimacy with them was always strained and

  soon ended of itself. Once, indeed, I did have a friend. But I was already

  a tyrant at heart; I wanted to exercise unbounded sway over him; I tried to

  instil into him a contempt for his surroundings; I required of him a

  disdainful and complete break with those surroundings. I frightened him

  with my passionate affection; I reduced him to tears, to hysterics. He was

  a simple and devoted soul; but when he devoted himself to me entirely I

  began to hate him immediately and repulsed him--as though all I

  needed him for was to win a victory over him, to subjugate him and

  nothing else. But I could not subjugate all of them; my friend was not at

  all like them either, he was, in fact, a rare exception. The first thing I did

  on leaving school was to give up the special job for which I had been

  destined so as to break all ties, to curse my past and shake the dust from

  off my feet .... And goodness knows why, after all that, I should go

  trudging off to Simonov's!

  Early next morning I roused myself and jumped out of bed with

  excitement, as though it were all about to happen at once. But I believed

  that some radical change in my life was coming, and would inevitably

  come that day. Owing to its rarity, perhaps, any external event, however

  trivial, always made me feel as though some radical change in my life

  were at hand. I went to the office, however, as usual, but sneaked away

  home two hours earlier to get ready. The great thing, I thought, is not to

  be the first to arrive, or they will think I am overjoyed at coming. But

  there were thousands of such great points to consider, and they all

  agitated and overwhelmed me. I polished my boots a second time with

  my own hands; nothing in the world would have induced Apollon to

  clean them twice a day, as he considered that it was more than his duties

  required of him. I stole the brushes to clean them from the passage, being

  careful he should not detect it, for fear of his contempt. Then I minutely

  examined my clothes and thought that everything looked old, worn and

  threadbare. I had let myself get too slovenly. My uniform, perhaps, was

  tidy, but I could not go out to dinner in my uniform. The worst of it was

  that on the knee of my trousers was a big yellow stain. I had a foreboding

  that that stain would deprive me of nine-tenths of my personal dignity. I

  knew, too, that it was very poor to think so. "But this is no time for

  thinking: now I am in for the real thing," I thought, and my heart sank. I

  knew, too, perfectly well even then, that I was monstrously exaggerating

  the facts. But how could I help it? I could not control myself and was

  already shaking with fever. With despair I pictured to myself how coldly

  and disdainfully that "scoundrel" Zverkov would meet me; with what

  dull-witted, invincible contempt the blockhead Trudolyubov would look

  at me; with what impudent rudeness the insect Ferfitchkin would snigger

  at me in order to curry favour with Zverkov; how completely Simonov

  would take it all in, and how he would despise me for the abjectness of

  my vanity and lack of spirit--and, worst of all, how paltry, UNLITERARY,

  commonplace it would all be. Of course, the best thing would be not to

  go at all. But that was most impossible of all: if I feel impelled
to do

  anything, I seem to be pitchforked into it. I should have jeered at myself

  ever afterwards: "So you funked it, you funked it, you funked the REAL

  THING!" On the contrary, I passionately longed to show all that "rabble"

  that I was by no means such a spiritless creature as I seemed to myself.

  What is more, even in the acutest paroxysm of this cowardly fever, I

  dreamed of getting the upper hand, of dominating them, carrying them

  away, making them like me--if only for my "elevation of thought and

  unmistakable wit." They would abandon Zverkov, he would sit on one

  side, silent and ashamed, while I should crush him. Then, perhaps, we

  would be reconciled and drink to our everlasting friendship; but what was

  most bitter and humiliating for me was that I knew even then, knew fully

  and for certain, that I needed nothing of all this really, that I did not really

  want to crush, to subdue, to attract them, and that I did not care a straw

  really for the result, even if I did achieve it. Oh, how I prayed for the day

  to pass quickly! In unutterable anguish I went to the window, opened the

  movable pane and looked out into the troubled darkness of the thickly

  falling wet snow. At last my wretched little clock hissed out five. I seized

  my hat and, trying not to look at Apollon, who had been all day

  expecting his month's wages, but in his foolishness was unwilling to be

  the first to speak about it, I slipped between him and the door and,

  jumping into a high-class sledge, on which I spent my last half rouble, I

  drove up in grand style to the Hotel de Paris.

  IV

  I had been certain the day before that I should be the first to arrive. But it

  was not a question of being the first to arrive. Not only were they not

  there, but I had difficulty in finding our room. The table was not laid

  even. What did it mean? After a good many questions I elicited from the

  waiters that the dinner had been ordered not for five, but for six o'clock.

  This was confirmed at the buffet too. I felt really ashamed to go on

  questioning them. It was only twenty-five minutes past five. If they

  changed the dinner hour they ought at least to have let me know--that is

  what the post is for, and not to have put me in an absurd position in my

  own eyes and ... and even before the waiters. I sat down; the servant

  began laying the table; I felt even more humiliated when he was present.

  Towards six o'clock they brought in candles, though there were lamps

  burning in the room. It had not occurred to the waiter, however, to bring

  them in at once when I arrived. In the next room two gloomy, angry-

  looking persons were eating their dinners in silence at two different

  tables. There was a great deal of noise, even shouting, in a room further

  away; one could hear the laughter of a crowd of people, and nasty little

  shrieks in French: there were ladies at the dinner. It was sickening, in fact.

  I rarely passed more unpleasant moments, so much so that when they did

  arrive all together punctually at six I was overjoyed to see them, as though

  they were my deliverers, and even forgot that it was incumbent upon me

  to show resentment.

  Zverkov walked in at the head of them; evidently he was the leading

  spirit. He and all of them were laughing; but, seeing me, Zverkov drew

  himself up a little, walked up to me deliberately with a slight, rather jaunty

  bend from the waist. He shook hands with me in a friendly, but not over-

  friendly, fashion, with a sort of circumspect courtesy like that of a General,

  as though in giving me his hand he were warding off something. I had

  imagined, on the contrary, that on coming in he would at once break into

  his habitual thin, shrill laugh and fall to making his insipid jokes and