prompt:
Chapter: "Ha! ha! ha!  But you know there is no such thing as choice in reality,
say what you like," you will interpose with a chuckle.  "Science has
succeeded in so far analysing man that we know already that choice and
what is called freedom of will is nothing else than--"

Stay, gentlemen, I meant to begin with that myself I confess, I was
rather frightened.  I was just going to say that the devil only knows
what choice depends on, and that perhaps that was a very good thing,
but I remembered the teaching of science ... and pulled myself up.  And
here you have begun upon it.  Indeed, if there really is some day
discovered a formula for all our desires and caprices--that is, an
explanation of what they depend upon, by what laws they arise, how they
develop, what they are aiming at in one case and in another and so on,
that is a real mathematical formula--then, most likely, man will at
once cease to feel desire, indeed, he will be certain to.  For who
would want to choose by rule?  Besides, he will at once be transformed
from a human being into an organ-stop or something of the sort; for
what is a man without desires, without free will and without choice, if
not a stop in an organ?  What do you think?  Let us reckon the
chances--can such a thing happen or not?

"H'm!" you decide.  "Our choice is usually mistaken from a false view
of our advantage.  We sometimes choose absolute nonsense because in our
foolishness we see in that nonsense the easiest means for attaining a
supposed advantage.  But when all that is explained and worked out on
paper (which is perfectly possible, for it is contemptible and
senseless to suppose that some laws of nature man will never
understand), then certainly so-called desires will no longer exist.
For if a desire should come into conflict with reason we shall then
reason and not desire, because it will be impossible retaining our
reason to be SENSELESS in our desires, and in that way knowingly act
against reason and desire to injure ourselves. And as all choice and
reasoning can be really calculated--because there will some day be
discovered the laws of our so-called free will--so, joking apart, there
may one day be something like a table constructed of them, so that we
really shall choose in accordance with it.  If, for instance, some day
they calculate and prove to me that I made a long nose at someone
because I could not help making a long nose at him and that I had to do
it in that particular way, what FREEDOM is left me, especially if I am
a learned man and have taken my degree somewhere?  Then I should be
able to calculate my whole life for thirty years beforehand.  In short,
if this could be arranged there would be nothing left for us to do;
anyway, we should have to understand that.  And, in fact, we ought
unwearyingly to repeat to ourselves that at such and such a time and in
such and such circumstances nature does not ask our leave; that we have
got to take her as she is and not fashion her to suit our fancy, and if
we really aspire to formulas and tables of rules, and well, even ... to
the chemical retort, there's no help for it, we must accept the retort
too, or else it will be accepted without our consent...."

Yes, but here I come to a stop!  Gentlemen, you must excuse me for
being over-philosophical; it's the result of forty years underground!
Allow me to indulge my fancy.  You see, gentlemen, reason is an
excellent thing, there's no disputing that, but reason is nothing but
reason and satisfies only the rational side of man's nature, while will
is a manifestation of the whole life, that is, of the whole human life
including reason and all the impulses. And although our life, in this
manifestation of it, is often worthless, yet it is life and not simply
extracting square roots.  Here I, for instance, quite naturally want to
live, in order to satisfy all my capacities for life, and not simply my
capacity for reasoning, that is, not simply one twentieth of my
capacity for life.  What does reason know?  Reason only knows what it
has succeeded in learning (some things, perhaps, it will never learn;
this is a poor comfort, but why not say so frankly?) and human nature
acts as a whole, with everything that is in it, consciously or
unconsciously, and, even if it goes wrong, it lives.  I suspect,
gentlemen, that you are looking at me with compassion; you tell me
again that an enlightened and developed man, such, in short, as the
future man will be, cannot consciously desire anything disadvantageous
to himself, that that can be proved mathematically.  I thoroughly
agree, it can--by mathematics.  But I repeat for the hundredth time,
there is one case, one only, when man may consciously, purposely,
desire what is injurious to himself, what is stupid, very
stupid--simply in order to have the right to desire for himself even
what is very stupid and not to be bound by an obligation to desire only
what is sensible.  Of course, this very stupid thing, this caprice of
ours, may be in reality, gentlemen, more advantageous for us than
anything else on earth, especially in certain cases.  And in particular
it may be more advantageous than any advantage even when it does us
obvious harm, and contradicts the soundest conclusions of our reason
concerning our advantage--for in any circumstances it preserves for us
what is most precious and most important--that is, our personality, our
individuality.  Some, you see, maintain that this really is the most
precious thing for mankind; choice can, of course, if it chooses, be in
agreement with reason; and especially if this be not abused but kept
within bounds.  It is profitable and sometimes even praiseworthy.  But
very often, and even most often, choice is utterly and stubbornly
opposed to reason ... and ... and ... do you know that that, too, is
profitable, sometimes even praiseworthy?  Gentlemen, let us suppose
that man is not stupid.  (Indeed one cannot refuse to suppose that, if
only from the one consideration, that, if man is stupid, then who is
wise?)  But if he is not stupid, he is monstrously ungrateful!
Phenomenally ungrateful.  In fact, I believe that the best definition
of man is the ungrateful biped.  But that is not all, that is not his
worst defect; his worst defect is his perpetual moral obliquity,
perpetual--from the days of the Flood to the Schleswig-Holstein period.
Moral obliquity and consequently lack of good sense; for it has long
been accepted that lack of good sense is due to no other cause than
moral obliquity.  Put it to the test and cast your eyes upon the
history of mankind.  What will you see?  Is it a grand spectacle?
Grand, if you like.  Take the Colossus of Rhodes, for instance, that's
worth something.  With good reason Mr. Anaevsky testifies of it that
some say that it is the work of man's hands, while others maintain that
it has been created by nature herself.  Is it many-coloured?  May be it
is many-coloured, too: if one takes the dress uniforms, military and
civilian, of all peoples in all ages--that alone is worth something,
and if you take the undress uniforms you will never get to the end of
it; no historian would be equal to the job.  Is it monotonous? May be
it's monotonous too: it's fighting and fighting; they are fighting now,
they fought first and they fought last--you will admit, that it is
almost too monotonous.  In short, one may say anything about the
history of the world--anything that might enter the most disordered
imagination. The only thing one can't say is that it's rational.  The
very word sticks in one's throat.  And, indeed, this is the odd thing
that is continually happening: there are continually turning up in life
moral and rational persons, sages and lovers of humanity who make it
their object to live all their lives as morally and rationally as
possible, to be, so to speak, a light to their neighbours simply in
order to show them that it is possible to live morally and rationally
in this world.  And yet we all know that those very people sooner or
later have been false to themselves, playing some queer trick, often a
most unseemly one.  Now I ask you: what can be expected of man since he
is a being endowed with strange qualities?  Shower upon him every
earthly blessing, drown him in a sea of happiness, so that nothing but
bubbles of bliss can be seen on the surface; give him economic
prosperity, such that he should have nothing else to do but sleep, eat
cakes and busy himself with the continuation of his species, and even
then out of sheer ingratitude, sheer spite, man would play you some
nasty trick.  He would even risk his cakes and would deliberately
desire the most fatal rubbish, the most uneconomical absurdity, simply
to introduce into all this positive good sense his fatal fantastic
element.  It is just his fantastic dreams, his vulgar folly that he
will desire to retain, simply in order to prove to himself--as though
that were so necessary--that men still are men and not the keys of a
piano, which the laws of nature threaten to control so completely that
soon one will be able to desire nothing but by the calendar.  And that
is not all: even if man really were nothing but a piano-key, even if
this were proved to him by natural science and mathematics, even then
he would not become reasonable, but would purposely do something
perverse out of simple ingratitude, simply to gain his point.  And if
he does not find means he will contrive destruction and chaos, will
contrive sufferings of all sorts, only to gain his point!  He will
launch a curse upon the world, and as only man can curse (it is his
privilege, the primary distinction between him and other animals), may
be by his curse alone he will attain his object--that is, convince
himself that he is a man and not a piano-key!  If you say that all
this, too, can be calculated and tabulated--chaos and darkness and
curses, so that the mere possibility of calculating it all beforehand
would stop it all, and reason would reassert itself, then man would
purposely go mad in order to be rid of reason and gain his point!  I
believe in it, I answer for it, for the whole work of man really seems
to consist in nothing but proving to himself every minute that he is a
man and not a piano-key! It may be at the cost of his skin, it may be
by cannibalism!  And this being so, can one help being tempted to
rejoice that it has not yet come off, and that desire still depends on
something we don't know?

You will scream at me (that is, if you condescend to do so) that no one
is touching my free will, that all they are concerned with is that my
will should of itself, of its own free will, coincide with my own
normal interests, with the laws of nature and arithmetic.

Good heavens, gentlemen, what sort of free will is left when we come to
tabulation and arithmetic, when it will all be a case of twice two make
four?  Twice two makes four without my will.  As if free will meant
that!

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The underground man rejects the notion that an enlightened, educated man will automatically be drawn towards what is good because it is advantageous to him and society. He believes that intelligent people usually move toward difficult, sometimes harmful, situations because they hold self-will dearer than they do virtue and reason and believe that there can be pleasure in pain. The narrator believes, however, that the present age argues against self-will, believing that man's actions are governed by the laws of nature, making them scientifically calculable and predictable. The narrator does not ascribe to the scientific theories of the day and does not believe that man acts according to science and reason. He feels man should be free to act in whatever way he desires, whether it is advantageous or not.


prompt:
Chapter: Gentlemen, I am joking, and I know myself that my jokes are not
brilliant, but you know one can take everything as a joke.  I am,
perhaps, jesting against the grain.  Gentlemen, I am tormented by
questions; answer them for me.  You, for instance, want to cure men of
their old habits and reform their will in accordance with science and
good sense. But how do you know, not only that it is possible, but also
that it is DESIRABLE to reform man in that way?  And what leads you to
the conclusion that man's inclinations NEED reforming?  In short, how
do you know that such a reformation will be a benefit to man?  And to
go to the root of the matter, why are you so positively convinced that
not to act against his real normal interests guaranteed by the
conclusions of reason and arithmetic is certainly always advantageous
for man and must always be a law for mankind?  So far, you know, this
is only your supposition.  It may be the law of logic, but not the law
of humanity.  You think, gentlemen, perhaps that I am mad?  Allow me to
defend myself.  I agree that man is pre-eminently a creative animal,
predestined to strive consciously for an object and to engage in
engineering--that is, incessantly and eternally to make new roads,
WHEREVER THEY MAY LEAD.  But the reason why he wants sometimes to go
off at a tangent may just be that he is PREDESTINED to make the road,
and perhaps, too, that however stupid the "direct" practical man may
be, the thought sometimes will occur to him that the road almost always
does lead SOMEWHERE, and that the destination it leads to is less
important than the process of making it, and that the chief thing is to
save the well-conducted child from despising engineering, and so giving
way to the fatal idleness, which, as we all know, is the mother of all
the vices.  Man likes to make roads and to create, that is a fact
beyond dispute. But why has he such a passionate love for destruction
and chaos also?  Tell me that!  But on that point I want to say a
couple of words myself.  May it not be that he loves chaos and
destruction (there can be no disputing that he does sometimes love it)
because he is instinctively afraid of attaining his object and
completing the edifice he is constructing?  Who knows, perhaps he only
loves that edifice from a distance, and is by no means in love with it
at close quarters; perhaps he only loves building it and does not want
to live in it, but will leave it, when completed, for the use of LES
ANIMAUX DOMESTIQUES--such as the ants, the sheep, and so on.  Now the
ants have quite a different taste.  They have a marvellous edifice of
that pattern which endures for ever--the ant-heap.

With the ant-heap the respectable race of ants began and with the
ant-heap they will probably end, which does the greatest credit to
their perseverance and good sense.  But man is a frivolous and
incongruous creature, and perhaps, like a chess player, loves the
process of the game, not the end of it.  And who knows (there is no
saying with certainty), perhaps the only goal on earth to which mankind
is striving lies in this incessant process of attaining, in other
words, in life itself, and not in the thing to be attained, which must
always be expressed as a formula, as positive as twice two makes four,
and such positiveness is not life, gentlemen, but is the beginning of
death.  Anyway, man has always been afraid of this mathematical
certainty, and I am afraid of it now.  Granted that man does nothing
but seek that mathematical certainty, he traverses oceans, sacrifices
his life in the quest, but to succeed, really to find it, dreads, I
assure you.  He feels that when he has found it there will be nothing
for him to look for.  When workmen have finished their work they do at
least receive their pay, they go to the tavern, then they are taken to
the police-station--and there is occupation for a week.  But where can
man go?  Anyway, one can observe a certain awkwardness about him when
he has attained such objects.  He loves the process of attaining, but
does not quite like to have attained, and that, of course, is very
absurd.  In fact, man is a comical creature; there seems to be a kind
of jest in it all. But yet mathematical certainty is after all,
something insufferable.  Twice two makes four seems to me simply a
piece of insolence.  Twice two makes four is a pert coxcomb who stands
with arms akimbo barring your path and spitting.  I admit that twice
two makes four is an excellent thing, but if we are to give everything
its due, twice two makes five is sometimes a very charming thing too.

And why are you so firmly, so triumphantly, convinced that only the
normal and the positive--in other words, only what is conducive to
welfare--is for the advantage of man?  Is not reason in error as
regards advantage?  Does not man, perhaps, love something besides
well-being? Perhaps he is just as fond of suffering?  Perhaps suffering
is just as great a benefit to him as well-being?  Man is sometimes
extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering, and that is a
fact.  There is no need to appeal to universal history to prove that;
only ask yourself, if you are a man and have lived at all.  As far as
my personal opinion is concerned, to care only for well-being seems to
me positively ill-bred.  Whether it's good or bad, it is sometimes very
pleasant, too, to smash things.  I hold no brief for suffering nor for
well-being either.  I am standing for ... my caprice, and for its being
guaranteed to me when necessary.  Suffering would be out of place in
vaudevilles, for instance; I know that.  In the "Palace of Crystal" it
is unthinkable; suffering means doubt, negation, and what would be the
good of a "palace of crystal" if there could be any doubt about it?
And yet I think man will never renounce real suffering, that is,
destruction and chaos.  Why, suffering is the sole origin of
consciousness.  Though I did lay it down at the beginning that
consciousness is the greatest misfortune for man, yet I know man prizes
it and would not give it up for any satisfaction.  Consciousness, for
instance, is infinitely superior to twice two makes four.  Once you
have mathematical certainty there is nothing left to do or to
understand.  There will be nothing left but to bottle up your five
senses and plunge into contemplation.  While if you stick to
consciousness, even though the same result is attained, you can at
least flog yourself at times, and that will, at any rate, liven you up.
Reactionary as it is, corporal punishment is better than nothing.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The underground man rejects the notion that an enlightened, educated man will automatically be drawn towards what is good because it is advantageous to him and society. He believes that intelligent people usually move toward difficult, sometimes harmful, situations because they hold self-will dearer than they do virtue and reason and believe that there can be pleasure in pain. The narrator believes, however, that the present age argues against self-will, believing that man's actions are governed by the laws of nature, making them scientifically calculable and predictable. The narrator does not ascribe to the scientific theories of the day and does not believe that man acts according to science and reason. He feels man should be free to act in whatever way he desires, whether it is advantageous or not.


prompt:
Chapter: You believe in a palace of crystal that can never be destroyed--a
palace at which one will not be able to put out one's tongue or make a
long nose on the sly.  And perhaps that is just why I am afraid of this
edifice, that it is of crystal and can never be destroyed and that one
cannot put one's tongue out at it even on the sly.

You see, if it were not a palace, but a hen-house, I might creep into
it to avoid getting wet, and yet I would not call the hen-house a
palace out of gratitude to it for keeping me dry.  You laugh and say
that in such circumstances a hen-house is as good as a mansion.  Yes, I
answer, if one had to live simply to keep out of the rain.

But what is to be done if I have taken it into my head that that is not
the only object in life, and that if one must live one had better live
in a mansion?  That is my choice, my desire.  You will only eradicate
it when you have changed my preference.  Well, do change it, allure me
with something else, give me another ideal.  But meanwhile I will not
take a hen-house for a mansion.  The palace of crystal may be an idle
dream, it may be that it is inconsistent with the laws of nature and
that I have invented it only through my own stupidity, through the
old-fashioned irrational habits of my generation.  But what does it
matter to me that it is inconsistent?  That makes no difference since
it exists in my desires, or rather exists as long as my desires exist.
Perhaps you are laughing again? Laugh away; I will put up with any
mockery rather than pretend that I am satisfied when I am hungry.  I
know, anyway, that I will not be put off with a compromise, with a
recurring zero, simply because it is consistent with the laws of nature
and actually exists.  I will not accept as the crown of my desires a
block of buildings with tenements for the poor on a lease of a thousand
years, and perhaps with a sign-board of a dentist hanging out. Destroy
my desires, eradicate my ideals, show me something better, and I will
follow you.  You will say, perhaps, that it is not worth your trouble;
but in that case I can give you the same answer.  We are discussing
things seriously; but if you won't deign to give me your attention, I
will drop your acquaintance.  I can retreat into my underground hole.

But while I am alive and have desires I would rather my hand were
withered off than bring one brick to such a building!  Don't remind me
that I have just rejected the palace of crystal for the sole reason
that one cannot put out one's tongue at it.  I did not say because I am
so fond of putting my tongue out.  Perhaps the thing I resented was,
that of all your edifices there has not been one at which one could not
put out one's tongue.  On the contrary, I would let my tongue be cut
off out of gratitude if things could be so arranged that I should lose
all desire to put it out.  It is not my fault that things cannot be so
arranged, and that one must be satisfied with model flats.  Then why am
I made with such desires?  Can I have been constructed simply in order
to come to the conclusion that all my construction is a cheat?  Can
this be my whole purpose?  I do not believe it.

But do you know what: I am convinced that we underground folk ought to
be kept on a curb.  Though we may sit forty years underground without
speaking, when we do come out into the light of day and break out we
talk and talk and talk....

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The narrator ponders man's desires and points out how important they are. He feels it would be terrible to live in the Crystal Palace, a glass structure in London, where he would be inhibited from pursuing his desires. He knows he would not be comfortable sticking out his tongue there even if he wanted to, for the whole world could see him and judge him. The narrator feels that man should always be able to pursue his desires, which define his being. He also acknowledges that a man cannot be satisfied until he obtains his true desires; substitutes are never sufficient to erase the real desire.


prompt:
Chapter: The long and the short of it is, gentlemen, that it is better to do
nothing! Better conscious inertia!  And so hurrah for underground!
Though I have said that I envy the normal man to the last drop of my
bile, yet I should not care to be in his place such as he is now
(though I shall not cease envying him).  No, no; anyway the underground
life is more advantageous. There, at any rate, one can ...  Oh, but
even now I am lying!  I am lying because I know myself that it is not
underground that is better, but something different, quite different,
for which I am thirsting, but which I cannot find!  Damn underground!

I will tell you another thing that would be better, and that is, if I
myself believed in anything of what I have just written.  I swear to
you, gentlemen, there is not one thing, not one word of what I have
written that I really believe.  That is, I believe it, perhaps, but at
the same time I feel and suspect that I am lying like a cobbler.

"Then why have you written all this?" you will say to me.  "I ought to
put you underground for forty years without anything to do and then
come to you in your cellar, to find out what stage you have reached!
How can a man be left with nothing to do for forty years?"

"Isn't that shameful, isn't that humiliating?" you will say, perhaps,
wagging your heads contemptuously.  "You thirst for life and try to
settle the problems of life by a logical tangle.  And how persistent,
how insolent are your sallies, and at the same time what a scare you
are in!  You talk nonsense and are pleased with it; you say impudent
things and are in continual alarm and apologising for them.  You
declare that you are afraid of nothing and at the same time try to
ingratiate yourself in our good opinion.  You declare that you are
gnashing your teeth and at the same time you try to be witty so as to
amuse us.  You know that your witticisms are not witty, but you are
evidently well satisfied with their literary value.  You may, perhaps,
have really suffered, but you have no respect for your own suffering.
You may have sincerity, but you have no modesty; out of the pettiest
vanity you expose your sincerity to publicity and ignominy.  You
doubtlessly mean to say something, but hide your last word through
fear, because you have not the resolution to utter it, and only have a
cowardly impudence.  You boast of consciousness, but you are not sure
of your ground, for though your mind works, yet your heart is darkened
and corrupt, and you cannot have a full, genuine consciousness without
a pure heart.  And how intrusive you are, how you insist and grimace!
Lies, lies, lies!"

Of course I have myself made up all the things you say.  That, too, is
from underground.  I have been for forty years listening to you through
a crack under the floor.  I have invented them myself, there was
nothing else I could invent.  It is no wonder that I have learned it by
heart and it has taken a literary form....

But can you really be so credulous as to think that I will print all
this and give it to you to read too?  And another problem: why do I
call you "gentlemen," why do I address you as though you really were my
readers? Such confessions as I intend to make are never printed nor
given to other people to read.  Anyway, I am not strong-minded enough
for that, and I don't see why I should be.  But you see a fancy has
occurred to me and I want to realise it at all costs.  Let me explain.

Every man has reminiscences which he would not tell to everyone, but
only to his friends.  He has other matters in his mind which he would
not reveal even to his friends, but only to himself, and that in
secret.  But there are other things which a man is afraid to tell even
to himself, and every decent man has a number of such things stored
away in his mind. The more decent he is, the greater the number of such
things in his mind.  Anyway, I have only lately determined to remember
some of my early adventures.  Till now I have always avoided them, even
with a certain uneasiness.  Now, when I am not only recalling them, but
have actually decided to write an account of them, I want to try the
experiment whether one can, even with oneself, be perfectly open and
not take fright at the whole truth.  I will observe, in parenthesis,
that Heine says that a true autobiography is almost an impossibility,
and that man is bound to lie about himself.  He considers that Rousseau
certainly told lies about himself in his confessions, and even
intentionally lied, out of vanity.  I am convinced that Heine is right;
I quite understand how sometimes one may, out of sheer vanity,
attribute regular crimes to oneself, and indeed I can very well
conceive that kind of vanity.  But Heine judged of people who made
their confessions to the public.  I write only for myself, and I wish
to declare once and for all that if I write as though I were addressing
readers, that is simply because it is easier for me to write in that
form.  It is a form, an empty form--I shall never have readers.  I have
made this plain already ...

I don't wish to be hampered by any restrictions in the compilation of
my notes.  I shall not attempt any system or method.  I will jot things
down as I remember them.

But here, perhaps, someone will catch at the word and ask me: if you
really don't reckon on readers, why do you make such compacts with
yourself--and on paper too--that is, that you won't attempt any system
or method, that you jot things down as you remember them, and so on,
and so on?  Why are you explaining?  Why do you apologise?

Well, there it is, I answer.

There is a whole psychology in all this, though.  Perhaps it is simply
that I am a coward.  And perhaps that I purposely imagine an audience
before me in order that I may be more dignified while I write.  There
are perhaps thousands of reasons.  Again, what is my object precisely
in writing?  If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I
not simply recall these incidents in my own mind without putting them
on paper?

Quite so; but yet it  is more imposing on paper.  There is something
more impressive in it; I shall be better able to criticise myself and
improve my style.  Besides, I shall perhaps obtain actual relief from
writing. Today, for instance, I am particularly oppressed by one memory
of a distant past.  It came back vividly to my mind a few days ago, and
has remained haunting me like an annoying tune that one cannot get rid
of. And yet I must get rid of it somehow.  I have hundreds of such
reminiscences; but at times some one stands out from the hundred and
oppresses me. For some reason I believe that if I write it down I
should get rid of it. Why not try?

Besides, I am bored, and I never have anything to do.  Writing will be
a sort of work.  They say work makes man kind-hearted and honest.
Well, here is a chance for me, anyway.

Snow is falling today, yellow and dingy.  It fell yesterday, too, and a
few days ago.  I fancy it is the wet snow that has reminded me of that
incident which I cannot shake off now.  And so let it be a story A
PROPOS of the falling snow.

PART II

A Propos of the Wet Snow

  When from dark error's subjugation
  My words of passionate exhortation
    Had wrenched thy fainting spirit free;
  And writhing prone in thine affliction
  Thou didst recall with malediction
    The vice that had encompassed thee:
  And when thy slumbering conscience, fretting
    By recollection's torturing flame,
  Thou didst reveal the hideous setting
    Of thy life's current ere I came:
  When suddenly I saw thee sicken,
    And weeping, hide thine anguished face,
  Revolted, maddened, horror-stricken,
    At memories of foul disgrace.
            NEKRASSOV
            (translated by Juliet Soskice).

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: The narrator ponders man's desires and points out how important they are. He feels it would be terrible to live in the Crystal Palace, a glass structure in London, where he would be inhibited from pursuing his desires. He knows he would not be comfortable sticking out his tongue there even if he wanted to, for the whole world could see him and judge him. The narrator feels that man should always be able to pursue his desires, which define his being. He also acknowledges that a man cannot be satisfied until he obtains his true desires; substitutes are never sufficient to erase the real desire.


prompt:
Chapter: AT THAT TIME I was only twenty-four.  My life was even then gloomy,
ill-regulated, and as solitary as that of a savage.  I made friends
with no one and positively avoided talking, and buried myself more and
more in my hole.  At work in the office I never looked at anyone, and
was perfectly well aware that my companions looked upon me, not only as
a queer fellow, but even looked upon me--I always fancied this--with a
sort of loathing.  I sometimes wondered why it was that nobody except
me fancied that he was looked upon with aversion?  One of the clerks
had a most repulsive, pock-marked face, which looked positively
villainous.  I believe I should not have dared to look at anyone with
such an unsightly countenance.  Another had such a very dirty old
uniform that there was an unpleasant odour in his proximity.  Yet not
one of these gentlemen showed the slightest self-consciousness--either
about their clothes or their countenance or their character in any way.
Neither of them ever imagined that they were looked at with repulsion;
if they had imagined it they would not have minded--so long as their
superiors did not look at them in that way.  It is clear to me now
that, owing to my unbounded vanity and to the high standard I set for
myself, I often looked at myself with furious discontent, which verged
on loathing, and so I inwardly attributed the same feeling to everyone.
I hated my face, for instance: I thought it disgusting, and even
suspected that there was something base in my expression, and so every
day when I turned up at the office I tried to behave as independently
as possible, and to assume a lofty expression, so that I might not be
suspected of being abject.  "My face may be ugly," I thought, "but let
it be lofty, expressive, and, above all, EXTREMELY intelligent."  But I
was positively and painfully certain that it was impossible for my
countenance ever to express those qualities.  And what was worst of
all, I thought it actually stupid looking, and I would have been quite
satisfied if I could have looked intelligent.  In fact, I would even
have put up with looking base if, at the same time, my face could have
been thought strikingly intelligent.

Of course, I hated my fellow clerks one and all, and I despised them
all, yet at the same time I was, as it were, afraid of them.  In fact,
it happened at times that I thought more highly of them than of myself.
It somehow happened quite suddenly that I alternated between despising
them and thinking them superior to myself.  A cultivated and decent man
cannot be vain without setting a fearfully high standard for himself,
and without despising and almost hating himself at certain moments.
But whether I despised them or thought them superior I dropped my eyes
almost every time I met anyone.  I even made experiments whether I
could face so and so's looking at me, and I was always the first to
drop my eyes.  This worried me to distraction.  I had a sickly dread,
too, of being ridiculous, and so had a slavish passion for the
conventional in everything external.  I loved to fall into the common
rut, and had a whole-hearted terror of any kind of eccentricity in
myself.  But how could I live up to it?  I was morbidly sensitive as a
man of our age should be.  They were all stupid, and as like one
another as so many sheep.  Perhaps I was the only one in the office who
fancied that I was a coward and a slave, and I fancied it just because
I was more highly developed.  But it was not only that I fancied it, it
really was so. I was a coward and a slave.  I say this without the
slightest embarrassment. Every decent man of our age must be a coward
and a slave.  That is his normal condition.  Of that I am firmly
persuaded.  He is made and constructed to that very end.  And not only
at the present time owing to some casual circumstances, but always, at
all times, a decent man is bound to be a coward and a slave.  It is the
law of nature for all decent people all over the earth.  If anyone of
them happens to be valiant about something, he need not be comforted
nor carried away by that; he would show the white feather just the same
before something else.  That is how it invariably and inevitably ends.
Only donkeys and mules are valiant, and they only till they are pushed
up to the wall.  It is not worth while to pay attention to them for
they really are of no consequence.

Another circumstance, too, worried me in those days: that there was no
one like me and I was unlike anyone else.  "I am alone and they are
EVERYONE," I thought--and pondered.

From that it is evident that I was still a youngster.

The very opposite sometimes happened.  It was loathsome sometimes to go
to the office; things reached such a point that I often came home ill.
But all at once, A PROPOS of nothing, there would come a phase of
scepticism and indifference (everything happened in phases to me), and
I would laugh myself at my intolerance and fastidiousness, I would
reproach myself with being ROMANTIC.  At one time I was unwilling to
speak to anyone, while at other times I would not only talk, but go to
the length of contemplating making friends with them.  All my
fastidiousness would suddenly, for no rhyme or reason, vanish.  Who
knows, perhaps I never had really had it, and it had simply been
affected, and got out of books.  I have not decided that question even
now.  Once I quite made friends with them, visited their homes, played
preference, drank vodka, talked of promotions....  But here let me
make a digression.

We Russians, speaking generally, have never had those foolish
transcendental "romantics"--German, and still more French--on whom
nothing produces any effect; if there were an earthquake, if all France
perished at the barricades, they would still be the same, they would
not even have the decency to affect a change, but would still go on
singing their transcendental songs to the hour of their death, because
they are fools.  We, in Russia, have no fools; that is well known.
That is what distinguishes us from foreign lands.  Consequently these
transcendental natures are not found amongst us in their pure form.
The idea that they are is due to our "realistic" journalists and
critics of that day, always on the look out for Kostanzhoglos and Uncle
Pyotr Ivanitchs and foolishly accepting them as our ideal; they have
slandered our romantics, taking them for the same transcendental sort
as in Germany or France.  On the contrary, the characteristics of our
"romantics" are absolutely and directly opposed to the transcendental
European type, and no European standard can be applied to them.  (Allow
me to make use of this word "romantic"--an old-fashioned and much
respected word which has done good service and is familiar to all.)
The characteristics of our romantic are to understand everything, TO
SEE EVERYTHING AND TO SEE IT OFTEN INCOMPARABLY MORE CLEARLY THAN OUR
MOST REALISTIC MINDS SEE IT; to refuse to accept anyone or anything,
but at the same time not to despise anything; to give way, to yield,
from policy; never to lose sight of a useful practical object (such as
rent-free quarters at the government expense, pensions, decorations),
to keep their eye on that object through all the enthusiasms and
volumes of lyrical poems, and at the same time to preserve "the sublime
and the beautiful" inviolate within them to the hour of their death,
and to preserve themselves also, incidentally, like some precious jewel
wrapped in cotton wool if only for the benefit of "the sublime and the
beautiful."  Our "romantic" is a man of great breadth and the greatest
rogue of all our rogues, I assure you....  I can assure you from
experience, indeed.  Of course, that is, if he is intelligent.  But
what am I saying!  The romantic is always intelligent, and I only meant
to observe that although we have had foolish romantics they don't
count, and they were only so because in the flower of their youth they
degenerated into Germans, and to preserve their precious jewel more
comfortably, settled somewhere out there--by preference in Weimar or
the Black Forest.

I, for instance, genuinely despised my official work and did not openly
abuse it simply because I was in it myself and got a salary for it.
Anyway, take note, I did not openly abuse it.  Our romantic would
rather go out of his mind--a thing, however, which very rarely
happens--than take to open abuse, unless he had some other career in
view; and he is never kicked out.  At most, they would take him to the
lunatic asylum as "the King of Spain" if he should go very mad.  But it
is only the thin, fair people who go out of their minds in Russia.
Innumerable "romantics" attain later in life to considerable rank in
the service.  Their many-sidedness is remarkable!  And what a faculty
they have for the most contradictory sensations!  I was comforted by
this thought even in those days, and I am of the same opinion now.
That is why there are so many "broad natures" among us who never lose
their ideal even in the depths of degradation; and though they never
stir a finger for their ideal, though they are arrant thieves and
knaves, yet they tearfully cherish their first ideal and are
extraordinarily honest at heart.  Yes, it is only among us that the
most incorrigible rogue can be absolutely and loftily honest at heart
without in the least ceasing to be a rogue.  I repeat, our romantics,
frequently, become such accomplished rascals (I use the term "rascals"
affectionately), suddenly display such a sense of reality and practical
knowledge that their bewildered superiors and the public generally can
only ejaculate in amazement.

Their many-sidedness is really amazing, and goodness knows what it may
develop into later on, and what the future has in store for us.  It is
not a poor material!  I do not say this from any foolish or boastful
patriotism. But I feel sure that you are again imagining that I am
joking.  Or perhaps it's just the contrary and you are convinced that I
really think so.  Anyway, gentlemen, I shall welcome both views as an
honour and a special favour. And do forgive my digression.

I did not, of course, maintain friendly relations with my comrades and
soon was at loggerheads with them, and in my youth and inexperience I
even gave up bowing to them, as though I had cut off all relations.
That, however, only happened to me once.  As a rule, I was always alone.

In the first place I spent most of my time at home, reading.  I tried
to stifle all that was continually seething within me by means of
external impressions.  And the only external means I had was reading.
Reading, of course, was a great help--exciting me, giving me pleasure
and pain.  But at times it bored me fearfully.  One longed for movement
in spite of everything, and I plunged all at once into dark,
underground, loathsome vice of the pettiest kind.  My wretched passions
were acute, smarting, from my continual, sickly irritability I had
hysterical impulses, with tears and convulsions.  I had no resource
except reading, that is, there was nothing in my surroundings which I
could respect and which attracted me. I was overwhelmed with
depression, too; I had an hysterical craving for incongruity and for
contrast, and so I took to vice.  I have not said all this to justify
myself....  But, no!  I am lying.  I did want to justify myself.  I
make that little observation for my own benefit, gentlemen.  I don't
want to lie.  I vowed to myself I would not.

And so, furtively, timidly, in solitude, at night, I indulged in filthy
vice, with a feeling of shame which never deserted me, even at the most
loathsome moments, and which at such moments nearly made me curse.
Already even then I had my underground world in my soul.  I was
fearfully afraid of being seen, of being met, of being recognised.  I
visited various obscure haunts.

One night as I was passing a tavern I saw through a lighted window some
gentlemen fighting with billiard cues, and saw one of them thrown out
of the window.  At other times I should have felt very much disgusted,
but I was in such a mood at the time, that I actually envied the
gentleman thrown out of the window--and I envied him so much that I
even went into the tavern and into the billiard-room.  "Perhaps," I
thought, "I'll have a fight, too, and they'll throw me out of the
window."

I was not drunk--but what is one to do--depression will drive a man to
such a pitch of hysteria?  But nothing happened.  It seemed that I was
not even equal to being thrown out of the window and I went away
without having my fight.

An officer put me in my place from the first moment.

I was standing by the billiard-table and in my ignorance blocking up
the way, and he wanted to pass; he took me by the shoulders and without
a word--without a warning or explanation--moved me from where I was
standing to another spot and passed by as though he had not noticed me.
I could have forgiven blows, but I could not forgive his having moved
me without noticing me.

Devil knows what I would have given for a real regular quarrel--a more
decent, a more LITERARY one, so to speak.  I had been treated like a
fly.  This officer was over six foot, while I was a spindly little
fellow.  But the quarrel was in my hands.  I had only to protest and I
certainly would have been thrown out of the window.  But I changed my
mind and preferred to beat a resentful retreat.

I went out of the tavern straight home, confused and troubled, and the
next night I went out again with the same lewd intentions, still more
furtively, abjectly and miserably than before, as it were, with tears
in my eyes--but still I did go out again.  Don't imagine, though, it
was cowardice made me slink away from the officer; I never have been a
coward at heart, though I have always been a coward in action.  Don't
be in a hurry to laugh--I assure you I can explain it all.

Oh, if only that officer had been one of the sort who would consent to
fight a duel!  But no, he was one of those gentlemen (alas, long
extinct!) who preferred fighting with cues or, like Gogol's Lieutenant
Pirogov, appealing to the police.  They did not fight duels and would
have thought a duel with a civilian like me an utterly unseemly
procedure in any case--and they looked upon the duel altogether as
something impossible, something free-thinking and French.  But they
were quite ready to bully, especially when they were over six foot.

I did not slink away through cowardice, but through an unbounded
vanity.  I was afraid not of his six foot, not of getting a sound
thrashing and being thrown out of the window; I should have had
physical courage enough, I assure you; but I had not the moral courage.
What I was afraid of was that everyone present, from the insolent
marker down to the lowest little stinking, pimply clerk in a greasy
collar, would jeer at me and fail to understand when I began to protest
and to address them in literary language. For of the point of
honour--not of honour, but of the point of honour (POINT
D'HONNEUR)--one cannot speak among us except in literary language.  You
can't allude to the "point of honour" in ordinary language. I was fully
convinced (the sense of reality, in spite of all my romanticism!) that
they would all simply split their sides with laughter, and that the
officer would not simply beat me, that is, without insulting me, but
would certainly prod me in the back with his knee, kick me round the
billiard-table, and only then perhaps have pity and drop me out of the
window.

Of course, this trivial incident could not with me end in that.  I
often met that officer afterwards in the street and noticed him very
carefully.  I am not quite sure whether he recognised me, I imagine
not; I judge from certain signs.  But I--I stared at him with spite and
hatred and so it went on ... for several years!  My resentment grew
even deeper with years.  At first I began making stealthy inquiries
about this officer.  It was difficult for me to do so, for I knew no
one.  But one day I heard someone shout his surname in the street as I
was following him at a distance, as though I were tied to him--and so I
learnt his surname.  Another time I followed him to his flat, and for
ten kopecks learned from the porter where he lived, on which storey,
whether he lived alone or with others, and so on--in fact, everything
one could learn from a porter.  One morning, though I had never tried
my hand with the pen, it suddenly occurred to me to write a satire on
this officer in the form of a novel which would unmask his villainy.  I
wrote the novel with relish.  I did unmask his villainy, I even
exaggerated it; at first I so altered his surname that it could easily
be recognised, but on second thoughts I changed it, and sent the story
to the OTETCHESTVENNIYA ZAPISKI.  But at that time such attacks were
not the fashion and my story was not printed.  That was a great
vexation to me.

Sometimes I was positively choked with resentment.  At last I
determined to challenge my enemy to a duel.  I composed a splendid,
charming letter to him, imploring him to apologise to me, and hinting
rather plainly at a duel in case of refusal.  The letter was so
composed that if the officer had had the least understanding of the
sublime and the beautiful he would certainly have flung himself on my
neck and have offered me his friendship.  And how fine that would have
been!  How we should have got on together!  "He could have shielded me
with his higher rank, while I could have improved his mind with my
culture, and, well ... my ideas, and all sorts of things might have
happened."  Only fancy, this was two years after his insult to me, and
my challenge would have been a ridiculous anachronism, in spite of all
the ingenuity of my letter in disguising and explaining away the
anachronism.  But, thank God (to this day I thank the Almighty with
tears in my eyes) I did not send the letter to him.  Cold shivers run
down my back when I think of what might have happened if I had sent it.

And all at once I revenged myself in the simplest way, by a stroke of
genius!  A brilliant thought suddenly dawned upon me.  Sometimes on
holidays I used to stroll along the sunny side of the Nevsky about four
o'clock in the afternoon.  Though it was hardly a stroll so much as a
series of innumerable miseries, humiliations and resentments; but no
doubt that was just what I wanted.  I used to wriggle along in a most
unseemly fashion, like an eel, continually moving aside to make way for
generals, for officers of the guards and the hussars, or for ladies.
At such minutes there used to be a convulsive twinge at my heart, and I
used to feel hot all down my back at the mere thought of the
wretchedness of my attire, of the wretchedness and abjectness of my
little scurrying figure.  This was a regular martyrdom, a continual,
intolerable humiliation at the thought, which passed into an incessant
and direct sensation, that I was a mere fly in the eyes of all this
world, a nasty, disgusting fly--more intelligent, more highly
developed, more refined in feeling than any of them, of course--but a
fly that was continually making way for everyone, insulted and injured
by everyone. Why I inflicted this torture upon myself, why I went to
the Nevsky, I don't know.  I felt simply drawn there at every possible
opportunity.

Already then I began to experience a rush of the enjoyment of which I
spoke in the first chapter.  After my affair with the officer I felt
even more drawn there than before: it was on the Nevsky that I met him
most frequently, there I could admire him.  He, too, went there chiefly
on holidays, He, too, turned out of his path for generals and persons
of high rank, and he too, wriggled between them like an eel; but
people, like me, or even better dressed than me, he simply walked over;
he made straight for them as though there was nothing but empty space
before him, and never, under any circumstances, turned aside.  I
gloated over my resentment watching him and ... always resentfully made
way for him.  It exasperated me that even in the street I could not be
on an even footing with him.

"Why must you invariably be the first to move aside?" I kept asking
myself in hysterical rage, waking up sometimes at three o'clock in the
morning.  "Why is it you and not he?  There's no regulation about it;
there's no written law.  Let the making way be equal as it usually is
when refined people meet; he moves half-way and you move half-way; you
pass with mutual respect."

But that never happened, and I always moved aside, while he did not
even notice my making way for him.  And lo and behold a bright idea
dawned upon me!  "What," I thought, "if I meet him and don't move on
one side?  What if I don't move aside on purpose, even if I knock up
against him?  How would that be?" This audacious idea took such a hold
on me that it gave me no peace.  I was dreaming of it continually,
horribly, and I purposely went more frequently to the Nevsky in order
to picture more vividly how I should do it when I did do it.  I was
delighted.  This intention seemed to me more and more practical and
possible.

"Of course I shall not really push him," I thought, already more
good-natured in my joy.  "I will simply not turn aside, will run up
against him, not very violently, but just shouldering each other--just
as much as decency permits.  I will push against him just as much as he
pushes against me."  At last I made up my mind completely.  But my
preparations took a great deal of time.  To begin with, when I carried
out my plan I should need to be looking rather more decent, and so I
had to think of my get-up.  "In case of emergency, if, for instance,
there were any sort of public scandal (and the public there is of the
most RECHERCHE: the Countess walks there; Prince D. walks there; all
the literary world is there), I must be well dressed; that inspires
respect and of itself puts us on an equal footing in the eyes of the
society."

With this object I asked for some of my salary in advance, and bought
at Tchurkin's a pair of black gloves and a decent hat.  Black gloves
seemed to me both more dignified and BON TON than the lemon-coloured
ones which I had contemplated at first.  "The colour is too gaudy, it
looks as though one were trying to be conspicuous," and I did not take
the lemon-coloured ones.  I had got ready long beforehand a good shirt,
with white bone studs; my overcoat was the only thing that held me
back.  The coat in itself was a very good one, it kept me warm; but it
was wadded and it had a raccoon collar which was the height of
vulgarity.  I had to change the collar at any sacrifice, and to have a
beaver one like an officer's.  For this purpose I began visiting the
Gostiny Dvor and after several attempts I pitched upon a piece of cheap
German beaver.  Though these German beavers soon grow shabby and look
wretched, yet at first they look exceedingly well, and I only needed it
for the occasion.  I asked the price; even so, it was too expensive.
After thinking it over thoroughly I decided to sell my raccoon collar.
The rest of the money--a considerable sum for me, I decided to borrow
from Anton Antonitch Syetotchkin, my immediate superior, an unassuming
person, though grave and judicious.  He never lent money to anyone, but
I had, on entering the service, been specially recommended to him by an
important personage who had got me my berth.  I was horribly worried.
To borrow from Anton Antonitch seemed to me monstrous and shameful.  I
did not sleep for two or three nights.  Indeed, I did not sleep well at
that time, I was in a fever; I had a vague sinking at my heart or else
a sudden throbbing, throbbing, throbbing!  Anton Antonitch was
surprised at first, then he frowned, then he reflected, and did after
all lend me the money, receiving from me a written authorisation to
take from my salary a fortnight later the sum that he had lent me.

In this way everything was at last ready.  The handsome beaver replaced
the mean-looking raccoon, and I began by degrees to get to work.  It
would never have done to act offhand, at random; the plan had to be
carried out skilfully, by degrees.  But I must confess that after many
efforts I began to despair: we simply could not run into each other.  I
made every preparation, I was quite determined--it seemed as though we
should run into one another directly--and before I knew what I was
doing I had stepped aside for him again and he had passed without
noticing me.  I even prayed as I approached him that God would grant me
determination. One time I had made up my mind thoroughly, but it ended
in my stumbling and falling at his feet because at the very last
instant when I was six inches from him my courage failed me.  He very
calmly stepped over me, while I flew on one side like a ball.  That
night I was ill again, feverish and delirious.

And suddenly it ended most happily.  The night before I had made up my
mind not to carry out my fatal plan and to abandon it all, and with
that object I went to the Nevsky for the last time, just to see how I
would abandon it all.  Suddenly, three paces from my enemy, I
unexpectedly made up my mind--I closed my eyes, and we ran full tilt,
shoulder to shoulder, against one another!  I did not budge an inch and
passed him on a perfectly equal footing!  He did not even look round
and pretended not to notice it; but he was only pretending, I am
convinced of that.  I am convinced of that to this day!  Of course, I
got the worst of it--he was stronger, but that was not the point.  The
point was that I had attained my object, I had kept up my dignity, I
had not yielded a step, and had put myself publicly on an equal social
footing with him.  I returned home feeling that I was fully avenged for
everything.  I was delighted.  I was triumphant and sang Italian arias.
Of course, I will not describe to you what happened to me three days
later; if you have read my first chapter you can guess for yourself.
The officer was afterwards transferred; I have not seen him now for
fourteen years.  What is the dear fellow doing now? Whom is he walking
over?

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: In Part II, the narrator gives a flashback to his past, when he was twenty-four years old. Because he felt inferior, he lived a lonely life with no friends. At work, he felt self-conscious and believed his peers looked down on him. He worried about his appearance and began to hate the look of his own face, for he believed others judged him as ugly even though they were unconcerned about their own appearance. As time passed, he both feared and hated his co- workers. Since he had no companions, the young narrator spent a lot of time reading in solitude. When he longed for excitement, he would go out and indulge in some "filthy vice," usually at a house of prostitution; afterwards, he would always feel ashamed of his behavior. One night as he traveled towards home after one of his forays, he saw a man being tossed out the window of a tavern. He entered the tavern to see what was happening. When an officer pushed him out of the way, he felt greatly insulted and believed he had not been treated like a human being. He wanted to protest, but instead he sneaked away, for he lacked the moral courage to challenge the officer. Although the narrator longed to return to the tavern and settle the insult, he could not do it, for he feared others would laugh at him. Instead, he stewed about it for years. To retaliate, he wrote a satire about the officer and tried unsuccessfully to have it published. He then composed a letter to the officer asking for an apology, but he never mailed it. He then came up with a plan to make the officer step aside for him on the street. Since the officer always stepped aside in respect for important people, the narrator decided to dress himself up. He took an advance from work and borrowed money in order to buy some appropriate clothing. Then dressing himself as a person of importance, he went to Nevsky Street, where the officer worked; but when the narrator met the officer, he found himself stepping aside for the uniformed man. Horrified at his own behavior, he decided he would try again. Every time he dressed up and encountered the officer, the same thing would happen. The narrator would loose courage and step aside for the officer. After each failure, he would literally feel sick. One day the narrator saw the officer, closed his eyes, and did not step aside. As a result, the two of them bumped into each other. The narrator was delighted that he had held his ground and went home feeling triumphant.


prompt:
Chapter: But the period of my dissipation would end and I always felt very sick
afterwards.  It was followed by remorse--I tried to drive it away; I
felt too sick.  By degrees, however, I grew used to that too.  I grew
used to everything, or rather I voluntarily resigned myself to enduring
it.  But I had a means of escape that reconciled everything--that was
to find refuge in "the sublime and the beautiful," in dreams, of
course.  I was a terrible dreamer, I would dream for three months on
end, tucked away in my corner, and you may believe me that at those
moments I had no resemblance to the gentleman who, in the perturbation
of his chicken heart, put a collar of German beaver on his great-coat.
I suddenly became a hero.  I would not have admitted my six-foot
lieutenant even if he had called on me.  I could not even picture him
before me then.  What were my dreams and how I could satisfy myself
with them--it is hard to say now, but at the time I was satisfied with
them.  Though, indeed, even now, I am to some extent satisfied with
them.  Dreams were particularly sweet and vivid after a spell of
dissipation; they came with remorse and with tears, with curses and
transports.  There were moments of such positive intoxication, of such
happiness, that there was not the faintest trace of irony within me, on
my honour.  I had faith, hope, love.  I believed blindly at such times
that by some miracle, by some external circumstance, all this would
suddenly open out, expand; that suddenly a vista of suitable
activity--beneficent, good, and, above all, READY MADE (what sort of
activity I had no idea, but the great thing was that it should be all
ready for me)--would rise up before me--and I should come out into the
light of day, almost riding a white horse and crowned with laurel.
Anything but the foremost place I could not conceive for myself, and
for that very reason I quite contentedly occupied the lowest in
reality.  Either to be a hero or to grovel in the mud--there was
nothing between.  That was my ruin, for when I was in the mud I
comforted myself with the thought that at other times I was a hero, and
the hero was a cloak for the mud: for an ordinary man it was shameful
to defile himself, but a hero was too lofty to be utterly defiled, and
so he might defile himself.  It is worth noting that these attacks of
the "sublime and the beautiful" visited me even during the period of
dissipation and just at the times when I was touching the bottom.  They
came in separate spurts, as though reminding me of themselves, but did
not banish the dissipation by their appearance. On the contrary, they
seemed to add a zest to it by contrast, and were only sufficiently
present to serve as an appetising sauce.  That sauce was made up of
contradictions and sufferings, of agonising inward analysis, and all
these pangs and pin-pricks gave a certain piquancy, even a significance
to my dissipation--in fact, completely answered the purpose of an
appetising sauce.  There was a certain depth of meaning in it.  And I
could hardly have resigned myself to the simple, vulgar, direct
debauchery of a clerk and have endured all the filthiness of it.  What
could have allured me about it then and have drawn me at night into the
street?  No, I had a lofty way of getting out of it all.

And what loving-kindness, oh Lord, what loving-kindness I felt at times
in those dreams of mine!  in those "flights into the sublime and the
beautiful"; though it was fantastic love, though it was never applied
to anything human in reality, yet there was so much of this love that
one did not feel afterwards even the impulse to apply it in reality;
that would have been superfluous.  Everything, however, passed
satisfactorily by a lazy and fascinating transition into the sphere of
art, that is, into the beautiful forms of life, lying ready, largely
stolen from the poets and novelists and adapted to all sorts of needs
and uses.  I, for instance, was triumphant over everyone; everyone, of
course, was in dust and ashes, and was forced spontaneously to
recognise my superiority, and I forgave them all.  I was a poet and a
grand gentleman, I fell in love; I came in for countless millions and
immediately devoted them to humanity, and at the same time I confessed
before all the people my shameful deeds, which, of course, were not
merely shameful, but had in them much that was "sublime and beautiful"
something in the Manfred style.  Everyone would kiss me and weep (what
idiots they would be if they did not), while I should go barefoot and
hungry preaching new ideas and fighting a victorious Austerlitz against
the obscurantists.  Then the band would play a march, an amnesty would
be declared, the Pope would agree to retire from Rome to Brazil; then
there would be a ball for the whole of Italy at the Villa Borghese on
the shores of Lake Como, Lake Como being for that purpose transferred
to the neighbourhood of Rome; then would come a scene in the bushes,
and so on, and so on--as though you did not know all about it?  You
will say that it is vulgar and contemptible to drag all this into
public after all the tears and transports which I have myself
confessed.  But why is it contemptible?  Can you imagine that I am
ashamed of it all, and that it was stupider than anything in your life,
gentlemen?  And I can assure you that some of these fancies were by no
means badly composed....  It did not all happen on the shores of Lake
Como.  And yet you are right--it really is vulgar and contemptible.
And most contemptible of all it is that now I am attempting to justify
myself to you.  And even more contemptible than that is my making this
remark now.  But that's enough, or there will be no end to it; each
step will be more contemptible than the last....

I could never stand more than three months of dreaming at a time
without feeling an irresistible desire to plunge into society.  To
plunge into society meant to visit my superior at the office, Anton
Antonitch Syetotchkin.  He was the only permanent acquaintance I have
had in my life, and I wonder at the fact myself now.  But I only went
to see him when that phase came over me, and when my dreams had reached
such a point of bliss that it became essential at once to embrace my
fellows and all mankind; and for that purpose I needed, at least, one
human being, actually existing.  I had to call on Anton Antonitch,
however, on Tuesday--his at-home day; so I had always to time my
passionate desire to embrace humanity so that it might fall on a
Tuesday.

This Anton Antonitch lived on the fourth storey in a house in Five
Corners, in four low-pitched rooms, one smaller than the other, of a
particularly frugal and sallow appearance.  He had two daughters and
their aunt, who used to pour out the tea.  Of the daughters one was
thirteen and another fourteen, they both had snub noses, and I was
awfully shy of them because they were always whispering and giggling
together.  The master of the house usually sat in his study on a
leather couch in front of the table with some grey-headed gentleman,
usually a colleague from our office or some other department.  I never
saw more than two or three visitors there, always the same.  They
talked about the excise duty; about business in the senate, about
salaries, about promotions, about His Excellency, and the best means of
pleasing him, and so on. I had the patience to sit like a fool beside
these people for four hours at a stretch, listening to them without
knowing what to say to them or venturing to say a word.  I became
stupefied, several times I felt myself perspiring, I was overcome by a
sort of paralysis; but this was pleasant and good for me.  On returning
home I deferred for a time my desire to embrace all mankind.

I had however one other acquaintance of a sort, Simonov, who was an old
schoolfellow.  I had a number of schoolfellows, indeed, in Petersburg,
but I did not associate with them and had even given up nodding to them
in the street.  I believe I had transferred into the department I was
in simply to avoid their company and to cut off all connection with my
hateful childhood.  Curses on that school and all those terrible years
of penal servitude!  In short, I parted from my schoolfellows as soon
as I got out into the world.  There were two or three left to whom I
nodded in the street.  One of them was Simonov, who had in no way been
distinguished at school, was of a quiet and equable disposition; but I
discovered in him a certain independence of character and even honesty
I don't even suppose that he was particularly stupid.  I had at one
time spent some rather soulful moments with him, but these had not
lasted long and had somehow been suddenly clouded over.  He was
evidently uncomfortable at these reminiscences, and was, I fancy,
always afraid that I might take up the same tone again.  I suspected
that he had an aversion for me, but still I went on going to see him,
not being quite certain of it.

And so on one occasion, unable to endure my solitude and knowing that
as it was Thursday Anton Antonitch's door would be closed, I thought of
Simonov.  Climbing up to his fourth storey I was thinking that the man
disliked me and that it was a mistake to go and see him.  But as it
always happened that such reflections impelled me, as though purposely,
to put myself into a false position, I went in.  It was almost a year
since I had last seen Simonov.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: In Part II, the narrator gives a flashback to his past, when he was twenty-four years old. Because he felt inferior, he lived a lonely life with no friends. At work, he felt self-conscious and believed his peers looked down on him. He worried about his appearance and began to hate the look of his own face, for he believed others judged him as ugly even though they were unconcerned about their own appearance. As time passed, he both feared and hated his co- workers. Since he had no companions, the young narrator spent a lot of time reading in solitude. When he longed for excitement, he would go out and indulge in some "filthy vice," usually at a house of prostitution; afterwards, he would always feel ashamed of his behavior. One night as he traveled towards home after one of his forays, he saw a man being tossed out the window of a tavern. He entered the tavern to see what was happening. When an officer pushed him out of the way, he felt greatly insulted and believed he had not been treated like a human being. He wanted to protest, but instead he sneaked away, for he lacked the moral courage to challenge the officer. Although the narrator longed to return to the tavern and settle the insult, he could not do it, for he feared others would laugh at him. Instead, he stewed about it for years. To retaliate, he wrote a satire about the officer and tried unsuccessfully to have it published. He then composed a letter to the officer asking for an apology, but he never mailed it. He then came up with a plan to make the officer step aside for him on the street. Since the officer always stepped aside in respect for important people, the narrator decided to dress himself up. He took an advance from work and borrowed money in order to buy some appropriate clothing. Then dressing himself as a person of importance, he went to Nevsky Street, where the officer worked; but when the narrator met the officer, he found himself stepping aside for the uniformed man. Horrified at his own behavior, he decided he would try again. Every time he dressed up and encountered the officer, the same thing would happen. The narrator would loose courage and step aside for the officer. After each failure, he would literally feel sick. One day the narrator saw the officer, closed his eyes, and did not step aside. As a result, the two of them bumped into each other. The narrator was delighted that he had held his ground and went home feeling triumphant.


prompt:
Chapter: 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.

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.

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.

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.

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: When the young narrator goes to visit Simonov, he finds two other former classmates, Trudolyubov and Ferfichkin, at his house. The three of them ignore the arrival of the underground man and continue to plan a farewell dinner for Zverkov, an officer and old schoolmate. Wanting to feel a part of things, the young narrator invites himself to the upcoming dinner party, even though he had always disliked Zverkov. It is obvious that the three schoolmates do not really want the young narrator to come to the dinner, for they try to talk him out of attending by reminding him that he was never really friends with Zverkov. The young narrator, however, will not be dissuaded. After Trudolyubov and Ferfichkin leave, Simonov asks the underground man to pay his seven roubles for the party. Unfortunately, he does not have seven roubles, and he also remembers that he already owes Simonov fifteen roubles. Simonov tells the young narrator that they can settle things after the dinner party, which is to take place at the Hotel de Paris on the next evening. As the young narrator walks towards home, he wonders why he had insisted on going to the party, especially since he is broke and has never liked Zverkov. He thinks about writing a note to Simonov, explaining that he cannot attend the party after all, but he knows that somehow the note will not be written and that he will definitely be at the Hotel de Paris for the party. The young narrator is plagued with bad dreams the night after his visit with Simonov. He envisions the misery he felt when his relatives sent him off to boarding school. Since he was quiet and shy, he made no friends and devoted himself to his studies. As he rose to the top of the class in academics, the other students ignored and disliked him even more. When he managed to finally make one friend, the young narrator quickly drove him away because he was too demanding. After sleeping fitfully because of the nightmare, the young narrator goes off to work, but he leaves two hours early in order to come home and prepare for the dinner party. As he gets dressed, he is ashamed of his shabby, stained clothes and fears that the others will laugh at his appearance and treat him rudely. To ease the pain he is feeling, he fantasizes that he woos the guests with his wit and wisdom and that he and Zverkov forgive each other and toast their friendship. When it is finally time to depart, he spends his last rouble on a carriage so that he can arrive at the Hotel of Paris in proper fashion.