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: The Underground Man launches into this story of his. He was twenty-four when it took place, and even then he was as gloomy and friendless as he is now. Everyone at the office hated him, he says, but those men were contemptible themselves. He goes on to describe why they were contemptible . What's more, they weren't even conscious of the fact that they were disgusting. He realizes now, he says, that his own self-loathing made him think that other people must hate their appearances, too. He wouldn't have even minded being ugly, he explains, as long as his face looked lofty and intelligent. But, no - he didn't even look intelligent. He just looked stupid. And while he hated all the other clerks in his office, he was also afraid of them, so much so that he had trouble looking anyone in the eye. This particularly concerned him, because he worried that it made him look ridiculous. He has a chronic fear of looking ridiculous. He also dreads being eccentric. Basically, he says, he fancied himself "a coward and a slave." And now, looking back, he can safely say that, not only did he think he was a coward and a slave, he really was. Why? Because every decent man must be both a coward and slave. Not just now, in this day and age, but always. Even if the decent man is brave at one point, he will end up being a coward at another. He recalls another thought of his twenty-four year-old self: that there was no one like him and that he was utterly alone. Speaking now, he takes that sentiment as evidence that he was definitely a youngster. . He recalls how his behavior passed through phases when he was younger. For a period of time he would be skeptical and indifferent to everything, and then he would be angry at himself for having been overly-romantic. But like we said, he went through phases. So sometimes he would be cynical, and other times he would go so far as to actually try making friends with people. And now he would like to make a digression, which is not so surprising. This time, he wants to talk more about Romanticism. "We Russians," the Underground Man says, have never had these foolish romantic notions. According to him, that's more the territory of the German, or worse, the French. French romantics, he says, are so involved in their grand emotions and lofty sentiments that they wouldn't even notice if an earthquake hit them. According to the Underground Man, the French are fools. Russia, on the other hand, has no fools in his opinion. Russians, he says, don't have the same breed of head-in-the-clouds, "transcendental" natures as the Germans or the French - Russians are much more practical. Then it gets a little messy, so just bear with us. There is a common misconception, says the Underground Man, that Russian romantics are the same as these French folks. How did that come about? Well, people looked at Russian literature and saw certain characters that were efficient, calculating, business-minded men of practicality. Critics viewed these characters as The Russian Ideal. Then, they slandered the Russian romantics as being the opposite of these ideals - impractical, ungrounded, idealistic, and sentimental, just like the French romantics. According to the Underground Man, this was wrong. Russian romantics shouldn't have been slandered this way, since they are actually very different from the French romantics. OK, but how are they different? Good question. Here's the Underground Man's answer: Russian romantics are able to see and understand everything, and to see it more clearly than practical people do. Also, they refuse to accept anyone, but they don't hate anything. They understand the use of a practical object, but they can also appreciate "the sublime and beautiful." And they are always intelligent. But enough about that, he says, let's talk about my youth. The Underground Man despised his work , but he never "abused" his job. A romantic, he says, would never abuse his job, unless he had plans to pursue another career. He then makes a joke about how a romantic would never go insane as "the King of Spain" - this is just a reference to Nikolai Gogol's short story "Diary of a Madman," in which the hero - also a civil servant - goes insane and imagines himself the King of Spain. What's remarkable about romantics, he says, is that they have many different sides to them, you know, like schizophrenics. That's why, he says, a romantic can be lofty at heart, hold true to his ideals, and still be a rogue. And now he's done with his digression on romanticism. Back to his memory that had something to do with snow. As you recall, the Underground Man was talking a lot about the phases he used to go through: either trying to be friends with people or cynically aloof. Either way, he was always alone. So he read books. Unfortunately, he found reading boring. He found that nothing external - not his books or anything else in the world - commanded his respect or could hold his interest. So instead, he took to "vice." Hmm, we think, what is this vice of which you speak? He doesn't say exactly. He just says it's shameful and he does it alone, timidly, at night. He also used to visit filthy, shameful places, constantly hoping he wouldn't be seen by anyone he knew. One time, he narrates, he saw two men playing billiards in a tavern until one threw the other out the window. This made him jealous - he sure wishes he could have been the one getting thrown out a window! He went inside said tavern in the hopes that he, too, would be defenestrated. Sadly, this great dream was never realized. Instead, the Underground Man just stood awkwardly in the way of the billiard table until a man took him by the shoulders and moved him out of the way. This really got the Underground Man's goat. He would have been fine if, say, the guy had punched him in the face, or perhaps throttled him Homer-and-Bart-Simpson-style, but this was simply unacceptable, mainly because the guy moved him without noticing him. He would have preferred a real fight, he says, even though physically this guy was Sylvester Stallone to the Underground Man's Napoleon Dynamite. But the Underground Man would like to make it clear that, although this guy could've pulverized him, he didn't slink away out of cowardice. He had physical courage, he says, but not moral courage. Fortunately, he explains what he's talking about. He wasn't afraid of getting pulverized, but he was afraid that, when he spoke to the uneducated masses in his majestic, literary terms, they wouldn't understand him, would laugh at him, and then he'd be alienated. OK, but why would he have to use some high-falutin' language to begin with? Because, he explains, that's the only way to talk about a point of honor. So that's why he didn't start a fight with the man. And that was the end of that. No, wait, that wasn't the end of that. As it turns out, the Underground Man knows how to hold a grudge. For days? Weeks? Years. He used to see the very same man from the billiards room around town, walking in the streets, etc. And he simply harbored his resentment and let it build and build. So the Underground Man tried everything to vent his anger. He even wrote a short story about the whole fiasco and sent it to a literary journal, which promptly rejected it. Also, this "greatly vexed" the Underground Man. Finally he decided the best thing to do was just duel with this guy already. So The Underground Man wrote the officer a letter that basically said, "Hey! Let's duel!" except in really fancy, academic terms. Actually, he says, the letter was so sublime and beautiful that, were the officer to read it, he probably would have begged for friendship with its author. But then the Underground Man realized that two years had passed since the billiards room incident, so it was really too late to send such a letter. So much for that. And then, the solution came upon him in a flash of insight: bump into the man. Brilliant! Er...maybe we should explore this a bit more. The Underground Man explains that he used to go for walks along the Nevsky Prospect . Of course, by "walk" he means "wriggle." He used to "wriggle" in between the other pedestrians, perpetually humiliated that he had such a low status in life that he had to move aside for others, especially those better dressed than he. So...why did he keep walking on the Nevsky? He doesn't know. It was definitely torture, though. So while he's been doing all this strolling, the Underground Man has been observing the officer from the billiards incident, whom he frequently sees on the Nevsky. The officer moves aside for men higher than he - like generals - but he plows right over lesser figures like the Underground Man. The Underground Man hates how he is always the first to move aside. So his big plan for getting revenge is to hold his ground and bump into the officer. But first, he decides he needs to look wealthy so that everyone watching this event will think he is on an equal footing with the officer. So he puts on a really nice shirt and gets all ready to go. Unfortunately, he decides there's a problem with his overcoat. It has a raccoon collar, which looks inexpensive. He decides to sell the raccoon collar and use the money towards buying a more expensive beaver collar. To make up the difference in cash, he borrows from his "immediate superior" at work, a guy named Anton Antonitch Svetotchkin. The only problem is that the Underground Man finds the act of borrowing to be quite shameful, so he works himself into a tizzy over it. Still, he does end up asking for the money, and Anton lends it. Then the Underground Man decides that his big moment on the Nevsky has to be very carefully planned; he can't do it at random. Which presents another problem: he gets so lost in scheming and planning every time he walks the street that he keeps passing the officer and forgetting to actually bump into him. Oops. And then, one night, on the Nevsky...he does it. He bumps his shoulder right into the officer. The officer, who walks right by without reacting, is obviously pretending not to notice the offence. Also, the Underground Man gets the worst of the bump . He then informs us that the officer has been relocated; the Underground Man hasn't seen him in fourteen years. He ends the chapter wondering, "What is the dear fellow doing now? Whom is he walking over?"


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: So, basically, the Underground Man's life was not fun. Ever. Because interacting with another human was clearly not an option, he took refuge in "the sublime and beautiful." At these moments, he felt that he was a completely different person from the man who borrowed money to buy a beaver collar. At these moments, he was a hero. At these moments, the Underground Man experienced intense feelings of happiness, faith, hope and love. He believed that some vocation - something for him to do in the real world - would suddenly make itself known, and he would be able to come out of his hole. Of course, when he wasn't feeling like Superman, he was feeling like a loser stuck in a hovel of mud. That was his problem, he says: that he was always either a hero or a man degraded. The hero moments only came in spurts, and they weren't strong enough to stop his "dissipation" . He compares these moments to a sauce: they merely spiced up the main dish that was his degradation - they certainly didn't get rid of it. The thing about these dreamlike moments of happiness, he says, is that they were so removed from reality that he couldn't really apply them to the real world. So while he felt love, joy, and hope in these sublime dreams, they didn't enable him to go out and find love or be happy at work, etc. Essentially, he divided his life into two realms: the real world, and the sphere of art in which his "beautiful and sublime" dreams lived. In the sphere of art, he was a master and hero who always had control of the remote. He could fall in love, and even his shameful deeds had something lofty about them. As you'll see in your text, there are some "Shout-Outs" here that might be confusing. "Manfred" is a reference to Lord Byron's poem Manfred, about a romantic, defiant hero. When the Underground Man talks about Austerlitz, he's referring to Napoleon's great victory there in 1805. Pope Pius VII was always at odds with Napoleon, so if the Pope left Rome and went to Brazil, as the Underground Man fantasizes about here, it would signal further victory on Napoleon's part.) He then pauses; he suspects that we, his readers, find it vulgar that he's talking about all this. He agrees that it is indeed vulgar, but it's even more vulgar that he's talking with us about the fact that it's vulgar and trying to justify its vulgarity. But enough, he says - and we agree. He reiterates that these happy dreams always came in phases; three months was pretty much the max, and then he would feel the need to "plunge back into society." That plunging generally meant a visit to Anton, the "immediate superior" and source of cash that we heard about in the previous chapter. Since Anton is only at home on Tuesday, his day-off, the Underground Man always had to schedule his dreaming to end on Monday nights. He then tells us some more about this Anton character: the guy lived with his two daughters and an aunt. Anton often entertained guests, a variety of boring gentlemen who sat around talking about boring things. Every time the Underground Man visited, he was reminded of how much he didn't like people. Then he could go home again and "defer" his desire to embrace humanity. And yet, somehow, amazingly, he had one friend. Well, better call him an "acquaintance." The guy's name is Simonov, and the Underground Man knows him from school. According to our narrator, Simonov is quiet and not completely stupid. The Underground Man claims that he's had "soulful moments" with him, but that Simonov always seemed embarrassed about these moments after they had passed. The Underground Man was fairly sure that Simonov found him to be repulsive, but he still went to visit him anyway. Now that we know who these guys are, the Underground Man launches into yet another story. Here we go. It's Thursday and the Underground Man is struck by one of his sudden urges to be around people. Since it's not Tuesday, Anton is out of the question, so he decides to go see Simonov. At this point, it's been about a year since he's seen the guy.


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 Underground Man gets to Simonov's place, there are two other men there, both guys that he knows from school. They basically pretend to ignore him. He figures they hate him. The men are busy talking about a farewell dinner they're having the next day for an old schoolmate who is going away. The man in question is Zverkov, an officer that the Underground Man, not surprisingly, despises. Actually, he does justify his hate. Apparently Zverkov is handsome, playful, and rich, which makes everyone want to get on his good side. As such, he's also "swaggering" and a master of "social graces." This part is particularly detestable to the Underground Man; Zverkov owns an estate with 200 serfs. Zverkov was a womanizer. He used to brag about how he would have sex with all the new brides of the serfs who lived on his land, because that was his right as the landlord. Other men used to applaud him for these aspirations, but the Underground Man resented him. Well, you're thinking, that sounds reasonable! Not for long. The Underground Man explains that he doesn't feel compassion toward the new brides. Instead, he just refuses to applaud an insect like Zverkov for any reason. Oh. Anyway, the Underground Man and Zverkov have been less than friendly toward each other for a while. With that background info out of the way, the Underground Man tells us some more about the two other men visiting Simonov. One is named Ferfitchkin, a "German blockhead" and a bitter enemy of the Underground Man's. He sucks up to Zverkov because he knows he can borrow money from him. The second man is named Trudolyubov, who is concerned only with things like social status and getting a promotion at work. He thinks of the Underground Man as useless . So it is these two men, along with Simonov, who are standing around making their plans for this going-away dinner when the Underground Man interrupts and assumes that he's going to the dinner as well, adding that he would help to pay by contributing seven roubles, just like everyone else. The men are taken aback at his blatant self-invitation. Simonov, awkwardly, says something like, "Oh...did you want to come too?" The Underground Man responds with something like, "I can't believe you weren't going to invite me!", and the men quite reasonably ask why they would invite someone who hates Zverkov to Zverkov's going-away dinner. The Underground Man responds that he wishes to come precisely because he has never gotten along with Zverkov. He makes it out as though he wants to reconcile with the man. Trudolyubov sighs and gives in, leaving only Ferfitchkin to complain about how the Underground Man shouldn't be allowed to come. And on that note, the two visitors exit, leaving the Underground Man alone with Simonov. Simonov walks around the room, flushed and awkward, and drops a hint reminding the Underground Man that he has owed him fifteen roubles for ages. The Underground Man starts to apologize but Simonov waves its off and continues stomping about the room. Finally, the Underground Man asks, "Am I keeping you?", and Simonov, seeing his opportunity for a quick exit, promptly says "yesiree Bob," or something to that effect. So the Underground Man promptly gathers his coat and hat and dashes for the door, surprised at himself for his own socially acceptable response of leaving when asked. On the way home, however, he gets horribly angry at himself for asking to tag along to this dinner. Still, he tells us in retrospect, what made him the most angry was that he knew he would attend the dinner even though he wasn't wanted. And there's another problem: he has no money. He has nine roubles, but he has to give seven to his servant, Apollon . He decides simply to not pay Apollon and to use the seven roubles to pay for his share of the dinner. That night, he has horrible dreams, mostly having to do with memories from school. We get a glimpse into his personal history here, as he reveals that he was sent away to the school by the "distant relations" who had custody of him. At school, he explains, his peers used to taunt him because he was different from them. He couldn't stand their jeers, so he hid himself away and hated them in secret. Still, he knew that he was above them; their stupid minds couldn't possibly comprehend "the essential things" of life, as his own could. Worse still, they all interpreted rank as an indication of intelligence. And all this because they were stupid. While he hated them all, though, he admits that he was "perhaps worse than any of them." Then he took the attitude of, "FINE! I don't like you anyway. Hate me all you want" and simply focused on his schoolwork, where he excelled. When teachers started to notice, the students stopped mocking him, but they were still hostile. The Underground Man couldn't hold out in his cynicism forever; he ended up longing for companionship. At one point, he says, he did have a friend...but then he acted as a "tyrant" toward him. The friend, seemingly a weak and passive fellow, "devoted himself entirely" to the Underground Man, at which point the Underground Man started hating him. And that was that. Back to the Zverkov dinner story. The Underground Man wakes up the next morning as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. He feels that today, miraculously, his life will change. But he also realizes that there are a thousand details to take care of: polish his boots, examine his clothes, etc. He's incredibly nervous for the evening and wonders how Zverkov will act when he shows up. He imagines that Zverkov will treat him disdainfully. He's particularly nervous that his poor appearance - including the stain on his pants - will shame him. Worst of all, he thinks, the evening will likely be "paltry and unliterary." And yet, despite knowing this, he can't help but dream that the other three men - Simonov, Trudolyubov, and Ferfitchkin - will be taken with his charm and abandon Zverkov. The Underground Man realizes, though - and realized even then, he says - that the most humiliating part of the whole fiasco was the fact that he didn't even care if he humiliated Zverkov. He didn't even care if he won over the friends and took them away from his enemy. Frankly, dears, he just didn't care. And still, when the clock strikes five, he heads out for dinner, sneaking past Apollon, who still hasn't been paid his wages.