About the Wet Snow

I found two of my old schoolfellows with him. They seemed to be discussing an important matter. All of them took scarcely any notice of my entrance, which was strange, for I had not met them for years. Evidently they looked upon me as something on the level of a common fly. I had not been treated like that even at school, though they all hated me. I knew, of course, that they must despise me now for my lack of success in the service, and for my having let myself sink so low, going about badly dressed and so on—which seemed to them a sign of my incapacity and insignificance. But I had not expected such contempt. Simonov was positively surprised at my turning up. Even in old days he had always seemed surprised at my coming. All this disconcerted me: I sat down, feeling rather miserable, and began listening to what they were saying.

I found two of my old schoolmates with him. They seemed to be discussing something important. None of them paid much attention when I came in. That was strange, since I hadn't seen them for years. Clearly, they thought no more of me than they would of a common fly. Even at school they hadn't treated me like that, though they all hated me. Of course, I knew they must despise me now for my lack of success in government service. They must also despise me for letting myself sink so low, dressing badly and so on. To them, that seemed a sign of my incompetence and insignificance. But I hadn't expected such contempt. Simonov was genuinely surprised that I had shown up. Even in the old days, he had always seemed surprised when I came. All this unsettled me. I sat down, feeling rather miserable, and began listening to what they were saying.

They were engaged in warm and earnest conversation about a farewell dinner which they wanted to arrange for the next day to a comrade of theirs called Zverkov, an officer in the army, who was going away to a distant province. This Zverkov had been all the time at school with me too. I had begun to hate him particularly in the upper forms. In the lower forms he had simply been a pretty, playful boy whom everybody liked. I had hated him, however, even in the lower forms, just because he was a pretty and playful boy. He was always bad at his lessons and got worse and worse as he went on; however, he left with a good certificate, as he had powerful 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 sham notions of honour and dignity, all but very few of us positively grovelled before Zverkov, and the more so the more he swaggered. And it was not from any interested motive that they grovelled, but simply because he had been favoured by the gifts of nature. Moreover, it was, as it were, an accepted idea among us that Zverkov was a specialist in regard to tact and the social graces. This last fact particularly infuriated me. I hated the abrupt self-confident tone of his voice, his admiration of his own witticisms, which were often frightfully stupid, though he was bold in his language; I hated his handsome, but stupid face (for which I would, however, have gladly exchanged my intelligent one), and the free-and-easy military manners in fashion in the “’forties.” I hated the way in which he used to talk of his future conquests of women (he did not venture to begin his attack upon women until he had the epaulettes of an officer, and was looking forward to them with impatience), and boasted of the duels he would constantly be fighting. I remember how I, invariably so taciturn, suddenly fastened upon Zverkov, when one day talking at a leisure moment with his schoolfellows of his future relations with the fair sex, and growing as sportive as a puppy in the sun, he all at once declared that he would not leave a single village girl on his estate unnoticed, that that was his droit de seigneur, and that if the peasants dared to protest he would have them all flogged and double the tax on them, the bearded rascals. Our servile rabble applauded, but I attacked him, not from compassion for the girls and their fathers, but simply because they were applauding such an insect. I got the better of him on that occasion, but though Zverkov was stupid he was lively and impudent, and so laughed it off, and in such a way that my victory was not really complete; the laugh was on his side. He got the better of me on several occasions afterwards, but without malice, jestingly, casually. I remained angrily and contemptuously silent and would not answer him. When we left school he made advances to me; I did not rebuff them, for I was flattered, but we soon parted and quite naturally. Afterwards I heard of his barrack-room success as a lieutenant, and of the fast life he was leading. Then there came other rumours—of his successes in the service. By then he had taken to cutting me in the street, and I suspected that he was afraid of compromising himself by greeting a personage as insignificant as me. I saw him once in the theatre, in the third tier of boxes. By then he was wearing shoulder-straps. He was twisting and twirling about, ingratiating himself with the daughters of an ancient General. In three years he had gone off considerably, though he was still rather handsome and adroit. One could see that by the time he was thirty he would be corpulent. So it was to this Zverkov that my schoolfellows were going to give a dinner on his departure. They had kept up with him for those three years, though privately they did not consider themselves on an equal footing with him, I am convinced of that.

They were talking warmly and earnestly about a farewell dinner they wanted to arrange for the next day. It was for their friend Zverkov, an army officer who was leaving for a distant province. Zverkov had also been at school with me the whole time. I had begun to hate him especially in the upper grades. In the lower grades, he had simply been a pretty, playful boy everyone liked. But I had hated him even then, precisely because he was pretty and playful. He was always bad at his lessons, and he got worse as he went on. Even so, he left school with a good certificate, thanks to influential connections. In his last year, he inherited an estate with two hundred serfs. Since nearly all of us were poor, he began to swagger among us. He was utterly vulgar, but he was also good-natured, even when he swaggered. Despite their shallow, fanciful, and false ideas of honor and dignity, all but a very few of us positively groveled before Zverkov. The more he swaggered, the more they groveled. They did not do it out of self-interest, but simply because nature had favored him. Besides, we seemed to have accepted that Zverkov was an expert in tact and social graces. This last point particularly infuriated me. I hated his abrupt, self-confident tone and his delight in his own jokes. Though boldly expressed, his jokes were often frightfully stupid. I hated his handsome but stupid face, though I would gladly have exchanged my intelligent one for it. I also hated the casual military manners fashionable in the “’forties.” I hated how he talked about the women he would conquer. He did not dare begin his attack on women until he had an officer’s epaulettes, which he impatiently awaited. He also boasted about the duels he would constantly be fighting. One day, he was chatting with his schoolmates about his future relations with women. He grew as playful as a puppy in the sun. Then he suddenly declared that he would not leave a single village girl on his estate unnoticed. That was his droit de seigneur, he said. If the peasants dared protest, he would have them all flogged and double their tax, the bearded rascals. Our servile rabble applauded, but I attacked him. I did it not out of compassion for the girls and their fathers, but simply because they were applauding such an insect. I usually said so little, but I remember suddenly turning on Zverkov that day. I got the better of him, but though he was stupid, he was lively and impudent. He laughed it off in such a way that my victory was not complete. The laugh was on his side. He got the better of me several times afterward, but without malice, jokingly and casually. I stayed silent, angry and contemptuous, and refused to answer him. When we left school, he made friendly advances. I did not reject them, because I was flattered, but we soon parted quite naturally. Later I heard of his successes among his fellow officers as a lieutenant, and of the fast life he was leading. Then came other rumors about his successes in the service. By then he had begun ignoring me in the street. I suspected he was afraid that greeting someone as insignificant as me would compromise him. I saw him once at the theater, in the third tier of boxes. By then he was wearing shoulder straps. He was twisting and turning, trying to win favor with the daughters of an ancient General. He had gone off considerably in three years, though he was still rather handsome and skillful. You could see he would be fat by the time he was thirty. So this was the Zverkov for whom my schoolmates were giving a farewell dinner. They had kept in touch with him for those three years. But privately, I am convinced, they did not consider themselves his equals.

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.

One of Simonov’s two visitors was Ferfitchkin, a German who had become Russian in his ways. He was a little man with a monkey’s face, a fool who was always mocking everyone. He had been a bitter enemy of mine since our early school years. He was vulgar, rude, and boastful, and pretended to be extremely sensitive about his personal honor. Of course, he was a miserable little coward at heart. He was one of Zverkov’s admirers, who flattered him for their own benefit and often borrowed money from him. Simonov’s other visitor, Trudolyubov, was unremarkable in every way. He was a tall young man in the army, with a cold face. He was fairly honest, though he worshipped success of every kind and could think only of promotion. He was some sort of distant relative of Zverkov’s. Foolish as it sounds, this gave him a certain importance among us. He always considered me completely insignificant. Though he was not quite polite to me, his behavior 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.”

“Well, if we each put in seven roubles,” said Trudolyubov, “that’s twenty-one roubles between the three of us. We should be able to get a good dinner for that. Zverkov, of course, won’t pay.”

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

“Of course not, since we’re 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.”

“Can you imagine,” Ferfitchkin interrupted, heated and smug, “that Zverkov will let us pay on our own? He’ll accept to avoid offending us, but he’ll order half a dozen bottles of champagne.” He sounded like an insolent servant boasting about his master the General’s medals.

“Do we want half a dozen for the four of us?” observed Trudolyubov, taking notice only of the half dozen.

“Do we want half a dozen for the four of us?” asked Trudolyubov, noticing only the half dozen.

“So the three of us, with Zverkov for the fourth, twenty-one roubles, at the Hôtel de Paris at five o’clock tomorrow,” Simonov, who had been asked to make the arrangements, concluded finally.

“So, the three of us, plus Zverkov, makes four. Twenty-one roubles, at the Hôtel de Paris, tomorrow at five o’clock,” Simonov finally concluded. He had been asked to make the arrangements.

“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.”

“How can it be twenty-one roubles?” I asked, agitated and pretending to be offended. “If you include me, it will be twenty-eight roubles, not twenty-one.”

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.

I thought inviting myself so suddenly and unexpectedly would be a graceful move. They would all be won over at once and 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.

“Do you want to join too?” Simonov asked, showing no pleasure and seeming to avoid looking at me. He knew me inside out.

It infuriated me that he knew me so thoroughly.

It made me furious that he knew me so well.

“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.

“Why not? I believe I went to school with him too. I have to admit, I’m hurt that you left me out,” I said, getting angry again.

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

“And where were we supposed to find you?” Ferfitchkin interrupted rudely.

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

“You never got along with Zverkov,” Trudolyubov added, frowning.

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

But I had already seized on the idea and would not let it go.

“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.”

“It seems to me that no one has the right to have an opinion on that,” I replied, my voice shaking as if something tremendous had happened. “Perhaps I want it now precisely because I haven't always been on good terms with him.”

“Oh, there’s no making you out ... with these refinements,” Trudolyubov jeered.

“Oh, there’s no figuring you out ... with all these subtleties,” Trudolyubov sneered.

“We’ll put your name down,” Simonov decided, addressing me. “Tomorrow at five-o’clock at the Hôtel de Paris.”

“We’ll put your name down,” Simonov said to me. “Tomorrow at five o’clock at the Hôtel de Paris.”

“What about the money?” Ferfitchkin began in an undertone, indicating me to Simonov, but he broke off, for even Simonov was embarrassed.

“What about the money?” Ferfitchkin began quietly, gesturing toward me as he spoke to Simonov. But he stopped, because even Simonov was embarrassed.

“That will do,” said Trudolyubov, getting up. “If he wants to come so much, let him.”

“That’s enough,” said Trudolyubov, getting up. “If he wants to come so badly, 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.”

“But this is private, just between us friends,” Ferfitchkin said irritably, picking up his hat too. “It’s not an official gathering.”

“We do not want at all, perhaps ...”

“Perhaps we do not want to at all ...”

They went away. Ferfitchkin did not greet me in any way as he went out, Trudolyubov barely nodded. Simonov, with whom I was left tête-à-tête, was in a state of vexation and perplexity, and looked at me queerly. He did not sit down and did not ask me to.

They left. Ferfitchkin did not acknowledge me at all as he went out. Trudolyubov barely nodded. Simonov, left alone with me, was annoyed and confused. He looked at me strangely. He did not sit down or 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.

“Hmm ... yes ... tomorrow, then. Will you pay your subscription now? I’m just asking so I know,” he muttered, embarrassed.

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.

I blushed bright red. As I did, I remembered that I had owed Simonov fifteen roubles for ages. In fact, I had never forgotten the debt, 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....”

“You understand, Simonov, that I had no idea when I came here.... I’m very upset that I forgot....”

“All right, all right, that doesn’t matter. You can pay tomorrow after the dinner. I simply wanted to know.... Please don’t...”

“All right, all right, that doesn’t matter. You can pay tomorrow after dinner. I just 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.

He broke off and began pacing the room, even more annoyed. As he walked, he began stamping his heels.

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

“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.

“Oh!” he said, startled. “Well, to be honest, yes. I have to go see someone ... not far from here,” he added apologetically, looking a little embarrassed.

“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.

“My goodness, why didn’t you say so?” I cried, grabbing my cap. I sounded surprisingly casual, the last thing I would 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.

“It’s close by ... less than two steps away,” Simonov repeated as he walked me to the front door. He had a fussy manner that didn’t suit him at all. “So five o’clock sharp tomorrow,” he called down the stairs after me. He was very glad to be rid of me. I was furious.

“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....”

“What got into me? What got into me to make me push myself on them?” I wondered, grinding my teeth as I walked down the street. “And for a scoundrel, a pig like Zverkov! Of course I’d be better off not going. Of course, I should just ignore them. I’m not obliged to go. I’ll send Simonov a note in tomorrow’s mail....”

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.

But what made me furious was knowing for certain that I would go, that I would make a point of going. And the more tactless and inappropriate it would be for me to go, the more certain I was to 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.

And there was a real obstacle to my going: I had no money. All I had was nine roubles. I had to pay seven of those to my servant, Apollon, for his monthly wages. That was all I paid him. He had to support himself.

Not to pay him was impossible, considering his character. But I will talk about that fellow, about that plague of mine, another time.

Given his character, it was impossible not to pay him. But I’ll talk about that fellow, that plague of mine, another time.

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

However, I knew I would go and wouldn't 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!

That night I had the most horrible dreams. No wonder. All evening I had been weighed down by memories of my miserable school days, and I could not shake them off. Distant relatives had sent me to the school. I depended on them, and I have heard nothing from them since. They sent me there a lonely, silent boy, already crushed by their reproaches, already troubled by doubt, and looking at everyone with fierce distrust. My schoolmates greeted me with cruel, merciless taunts because I was not like any of them. But I could not bear their taunts. I could not give in to them with the shameful readiness with which they gave in to one another. I hated them from the start and shut myself away from everyone, full of timid, wounded, and excessive pride. Their coarseness disgusted me. They laughed cruelly at my face and my awkward body, yet what stupid faces they had themselves. At our school, the boys’ faces seemed to become uglier and stupider in a way all their own. How many handsome boys came to us! Within a few years they became repulsive. Even at sixteen, I looked at them with gloomy wonder. Even then, I was struck by how petty their thoughts were and how stupid their pursuits, games, and conversations were. They understood nothing about such essential things and took no interest in such striking, impressive subjects. I could not help considering them inferior to me. It was not wounded vanity that drove me to think so. And for God’s sake, do not give me your stale remarks, repeated until they make me sick. Do not tell me that “I was only a dreamer,” while they already understood life. They understood nothing. They had no idea of real life, and I swear that was what made me angriest with them. On the contrary, they accepted the most obvious, striking reality with incredible stupidity. Even then, they were used to respecting success. They laughed heartlessly and shamelessly at everything that was just but oppressed and looked down upon. They mistook rank for intelligence. Even at sixteen, they were already talking about a comfortable job. Of course, much of this was due to their stupidity. It was also due to the bad examples that had always surrounded them as children and boys. They were monstrously depraved. Of course, much of that was superficial too, an affectation of cynicism. Of course, even in their depravity, there were glimpses of youth and freshness. But even that freshness was unattractive, and showed itself in a kind of reckless, dissolute behavior. I hated them terribly, though perhaps I was worse than any of them. They hated me in return and did not hide their dislike of me. But by then I did not want their affection. On the contrary, I constantly longed to see them humiliated. To escape their mockery, I deliberately worked as hard as I could at my studies and forced my way to the top. This impressed them. They also gradually realized that I had already read books none of them could read. I understood things outside our school curriculum that they had not even heard of. They reacted with savage sarcasm, but they were still impressed. They were especially impressed because the teachers had begun to notice me for those things. The mockery stopped, but the hostility remained. Our relations became permanently cold and strained. In the end I could not stand it. As the years passed, I began to crave company and friends. I tried to become friendly with some of my schoolmates. But somehow our friendship was always strained and soon ended on its own. Once, though, I did have a friend. But I was already a tyrant at heart. I wanted complete power over him. I tried to teach him to despise his surroundings. I demanded that he scorn them and break with them completely. I frightened him with my passionate affection. I drove him to tears and hysterics. He was a simple and devoted soul. But when he devoted himself entirely to me, I immediately began to hate him and pushed him away. It was as if all I wanted was to defeat him and bring him under my power, nothing more. But I could not bring all of them under my power. My friend was not at all like the others either. In fact, he was a rare exception. The first thing I did on leaving school was give up the particular job I had been meant for. I wanted to break all ties, curse my past, and shake its dust from 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 Hôtel de Paris.

Early the next morning, I woke up and jumped out of bed, excited as if everything were about to happen at once. I believed that some radical change in my life was coming, and that it would inevitably come that day. Perhaps because external events were so rare in my life, any one of them, however trivial, always made me feel that a radical change was near. I went to the office as usual, but slipped away home two hours early to get ready. The important thing, I thought, was not to arrive first. Otherwise, they would think I was delighted to be there. But there were thousands of important things like that 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 persuaded Apollon to clean them twice a day. He considered that more than his duties required. I stole the brushes from the passage to clean them, taking care that he did not catch me. I was afraid he would despise me for it. Then I examined my clothes closely and thought that everything looked old, worn, and threadbare. I had let myself become too careless about my appearance. My uniform was perhaps tidy, but I could not wear it to dinner. Worst of all, there was a big yellow stain on the knee of my trousers. I had a feeling that the stain would rob me of nine-tenths of my personal dignity. I also knew how petty it was to think that way. “But this is no time for thinking: now I am facing the real thing,” I thought, and my heart sank. Even then, I knew perfectly well that I was exaggerating terribly. But how could I help it? I could not control myself and was already shaking with fever. In despair, I imagined how coldly and scornfully that “scoundrel” Zverkov would greet me. I imagined the dull, unwavering contempt with which the blockhead Trudolyubov would look at me. I pictured the insect Ferfitchkin snickering at me with shameless rudeness to win Zverkov's favor. And I imagined how completely Simonov would understand it all. He would despise me for my pathetic vanity and lack of spirit. Worst of all, I imagined how petty, unliterary, and ordinary it would all be. Of course, the best thing would be not to go at all. But that was the most impossible thing of all. If I feel driven to do something, I seem to be thrown headlong into it. I would have mocked myself forever afterward: “So you chickened out, you chickened out, you chickened out of the real thing!” On the contrary, I desperately wanted to show that whole “rabble” that I was not nearly as spineless as I seemed to myself. What's more, even at the height of this cowardly fever, I dreamed of getting the upper hand. I would dominate them, sweep them away, and make them like me, if only for my “lofty thoughts and unmistakable wit.” They would abandon Zverkov, and he would sit off to one side, silent and ashamed, while I crushed him. Then, perhaps, we would make peace and drink to our everlasting friendship. But the most bitter and humiliating thing was what I knew even then. I knew fully and certainly that I did not really need any of this. I did not really want to crush them, subdue them, or draw them to me. And I did not care in the slightest about the result, even if I did achieve it. Oh, how I prayed for the day to pass quickly! In unspeakable anguish, I went to the window, opened the movable pane, and looked out. Thick, wet snow was falling into the troubled darkness. At last my miserable little clock hissed out five. I grabbed my hat, trying not to look at Apollon. He had been expecting his month's wages all day, but was too foolish to bring the matter up first. I slipped between him and the door and jumped into a fine sledge. I spent my last half rouble on it and arrived at the Hôtel de Paris in grand style.