- 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
