They were engaged in warm and earnest conversation about a farewell dinner which they wanted to arrange for the next day to a comrade of theirs called Zverkov, an officer in the army, who was going away to a distant province. This Zverkov had been all the time at school with me too. I had begun to hate him particularly in the upper forms. In the lower forms he had simply been a pretty, playful boy whom everybody liked. I had hated him, however, even in the lower forms, just because he was a pretty and playful boy. He was always bad at his lessons and got worse and worse as he went on; however, he left with a good certificate, as he had powerful interests. During his last year at school he came in for an estate of two hundred serfs, and as almost all of us were poor he took up a swaggering tone among us. He was vulgar in the extreme, but at the same time he was a good-natured fellow, even in his swaggering. In spite of superficial, fantastic and sham4 notions of honour and dignity, all but very few of us positively grovelled5 before Zverkov, and the more so the more he swaggered. And it was not from any interested motive6 that they grovelled, but simply because he had been favoured by the gifts of nature. Moreover, it was, as it were, an accepted idea among us that Zverkov was a specialist in regard to tact7 and the social graces. This last fact particularly infuriated me. I hated the abrupt8 self-confident tone of his voice, his admiration9 of his own witticisms10, which were often frightfully stupid, though he was bold in his language; I hated his handsome, but stupid face (for which I would, however, have gladly exchanged my intelligent one), and the free-and-easy military manners in fashion in the “‘forties.” I hated the way in which he used to talk of his future conquests of women (he did not venture to begin his attack upon women until he had the epaulettes of an officer, and was looking forward to them with impatience), and boasted of the duels12 he would constantly be fighting. I remember how I, invariably so taciturn, suddenly fastened upon Zverkov, when one day talking at a leisure moment with his schoolfellows of his future relations with the fair sex, and growing as sportive as a puppy in the sun, he all at once declared that he would not leave a single village girl on his estate unnoticed, that that was his DROIT DE SEIGNEUR, and that if the peasants dared to protest he would have them all flogged and double the tax on them, the bearded rascals13. Our servile rabble14 applauded, but I attacked him, not from compassion15 for the girls and their fathers, but simply because they were applauding such an insect. I got the better of him on that occasion, but though Zverkov was stupid he was lively and impudent16, and so laughed it off, and in such a way that my victory was not really complete; the laugh was on his side. He got the better of me on several occasions afterwards, but without malice17, jestingly, casually18. I remained angrily and contemptuously silent and would not answer him. When we left school he made advances to me; I did not rebuff them, for I was flattered, but we soon parted and quite naturally. Afterwards I heard of his barrack-room success as a lieutenant19, and of the fast life he was leading. Then there came other rumours20 — 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 insignificant21 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 considerably22, though he was still rather handsome and adroit23. 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 privately24 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 deriding25 everyone, a very bitter enemy of mine from our days in the lower forms — a vulgar, impudent, swaggering fellow, who affected26 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 motives27, and often borrowed money from him. Simonov’s other visitor, Trudolyubov, was a person in no way remarkable28 — 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 promotion29. 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 courteous30, 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 inviting31 him,” Simonov decided32.
“Can you imagine,” Ferfitchkin interrupted hotly and conceitedly33, like some insolent34 flunkey boasting of his master the General’s decorations, “can you imagine that Zverkov will let us pay alone? He will accept from delicacy35, but he will order half a dozen bottles of champagne36.”
“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 agitation37, 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 graceful38, 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 thoroughly39.
“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 jeered40.
“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 gathering41.”
“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 subscription42 now? I just ask so as to know,” he muttered in embarrassment43.
I flushed crimson44, 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 vexed45 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 truthful46 — yes. I have to go and see someone . . . not far from here,” he added in an apologetic voice, somewhat abashed47.
“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 fussy48 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 possessed49 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.
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 hideous50 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 savage51 distrust at everyone. My schoolfellows met me with spiteful and merciless jibes52 because I was not like any of them. But I could not endure their taunts53; I could not give in to them with the ignoble54 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 cynically55 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 degenerate56 and grow stupider. How many fine-looking boys came to us! In a few years they became repulsive57. Even at sixteen I wondered at them morosely58; 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 nausea59, 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 shamefully60. They took rank for intelligence; even at sixteen they were already talking about a snug61 berth62. 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 monstrously63 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 conceal64 their aversion for me. But by then I did not desire their affection: on the contrary, I continually longed for their humiliation65. 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 sarcastic66 view of it, but were morally impressed, especially as the teachers began to notice me on those grounds. The mockery ceased, but the hostility67 remained, and cold and strained relations became permanent between us. In the end I could not put up with it: with years a craving68 for society, for friends, developed in me. I attempted to get on friendly terms with some of my schoolfellows; but somehow or other my intimacy69 with them was always strained and soon ended of itself. Once, indeed, I did have a friend. But I was already a tyrant70 at heart; I wanted to exercise unbounded sway over him; I tried to instil71 into him a contempt for his surroundings; I required of him a disdainful and complete break with those surroundings. I frightened him with my passionate72 affection; I reduced him to tears, to hysterics. He was a simple and devoted73 soul; but when he devoted himself to me entirely74 I began to hate him immediately and repulsed75 him — as though all I needed him for was to win a victory over him, to subjugate76 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 destined77 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 trudging78 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 radical79 change in my life was coming, and would inevitably80 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 sneaked81 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 agitated82 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 slovenly83. 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, perfectly84 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, invincible85 contempt the blockhead Trudolyubov would look at me; with what impudent rudeness the insect Ferfitchkin would snigger at me in order to curry86 favour with Zverkov; how completely Simonov would take it all in, and how he would despise me for the abjectness87 of my vanity and lack of spirit — and, worst of all, how paltry88, 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 impelled89 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 passionately90 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 everlasting91 friendship; but what was most bitter and humiliating for me was that I knew even then, knew fully11 and for certain, that I needed nothing of all this really, that I did not really want to crush, to subdue92, 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 anguish93 I went to the window, opened the movable pane94 and looked out into the troubled darkness of the thickly falling wet snow. At last my wretched little clock hissed95 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 unwilling96 to be the first to speak about it, I slipped between him and the door and, jumping into a high-class sledge97, on which I spent my last half rouble, I drove up in grand style to the Hotel de Paris.
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1
insignificance
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| n.不重要；无价值；无意义 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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grovelled
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| v.卑躬屈节，奴颜婢膝( grovel的过去式和过去分词 )；趴 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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witticisms
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| n.妙语，俏皮话( witticism的名词复数 ) | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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duels
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| n.两男子的决斗( duel的名词复数 )；竞争，斗争 | |
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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impudent
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| adj.鲁莽的，卑鄙的，厚颜无耻的 | |
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malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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casually
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| adv.漠不关心地，无动于衷地，不负责任地 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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insignificant
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| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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adroit
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| adj.熟练的，灵巧的 | |
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privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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deriding
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的现在分词 ) | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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promotion
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| n.提升，晋级；促销，宣传 | |
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courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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inviting
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| adj.诱人的，引人注目的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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conceitedly
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| 自满地 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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champagne
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| n.香槟酒；微黄色 | |
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agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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jeered
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| v.嘲笑( jeer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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subscription
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| n.预订，预订费，亲笔签名，调配法，下标（处方） | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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crimson
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| n./adj.深(绯)红色(的)；vi.脸变绯红色 | |
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vexed
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| adj.争论不休的；（指问题等）棘手的；争论不休的问题；烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 )；使苦恼；使生气；详细讨论 | |
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46
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fussy
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| adj.为琐事担忧的，过分装饰的，爱挑剔的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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51
savage
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| adj.野蛮的；凶恶的，残暴的；n.未开化的人 | |
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52
jibes
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| n.与…一致( jibe的名词复数 )；（与…）相符；相匹配v.与…一致( jibe的第三人称单数 )；（与…）相符；相匹配 | |
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53
taunts
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| 嘲弄的言语，嘲笑，奚落( taunt的名词复数 ) | |
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ignoble
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| adj.不光彩的，卑鄙的；可耻的 | |
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cynically
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| adv.爱嘲笑地，冷笑地 | |
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56
degenerate
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| v.退步，堕落；adj.退步的，堕落的；n.堕落者 | |
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repulsive
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| adj.排斥的，使人反感的 | |
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morosely
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| adv.愁眉苦脸地，忧郁地 | |
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nausea
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| n.作呕，恶心；极端的憎恶(或厌恶) | |
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shamefully
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| 可耻地； 丢脸地； 不体面地； 羞耻地 | |
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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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berth
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| n.卧铺，停泊地，锚位；v.使停泊 | |
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monstrously
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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sarcastic
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| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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67
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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craving
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| n.渴望,热望 | |
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intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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instil
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| v.逐渐灌输 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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repulsed
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| v.击退( repulse的过去式和过去分词 )；驳斥；拒绝 | |
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subjugate
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| v.征服；抑制 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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81
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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slovenly
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| adj.懒散的，不整齐的，邋遢的 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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85
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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86
curry
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| n.咖哩粉，咖哩饭菜；v.用咖哩粉调味，用马栉梳，制革 | |
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abjectness
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| 凄惨； 绝望； 卑鄙； 卑劣 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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impelled
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| v.推动、推进或敦促某人做某事( impel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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91
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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92
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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93
anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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95
hissed
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| 发嘶嘶声( hiss的过去式和过去分词 )； 发嘘声表示反对 | |
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unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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sledge
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| n.雪橇，大锤；v.用雪橇搬运，坐雪橇往 | |
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