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.

 Visiting Simonov at his apartment, the UM also encounters two of his other former classmates-Ferfichkin and Trudolyubov. Apparently the men are discussing the party for their friend, Zverkov, for the following evening. The men completely ignore the UM as he enters, contributing to his notion that he is nothing but an "ordinary house fly. Finally after all the preparations have been made, the UM invites himself to their gathering, much to their chagrin. That night he has horrible dreams about his childhood school experiences, where he is alienated from his classmates-by conscious choice of course. These dreams set up an important contrast to the previous "beautiful and sublime" dreams he had been having over the previous three months. Though he had imagined that mankind would embrace him and show him the love he found in his dreams, his overly acute conscious realizes that such fantasies will not be found in the real world, that society will not show him the love he desires. Finally he leaves for the dinner, still possessing his perpetual thoughts of self-loathing and anguish

