"I'll never forgive myself for putting him on the list!" Simonov growled again.
"Now's the time to up and hurl a bottle at them all," I thought, took the bottle, and… poured myself a full glass.
"… No, I'd better sit it out to the end!" I went on thinking. "You'd be glad, gentlemen, if I left. No chance of that. I'll purposely sit and drink to the end, as a sign that I attach not the slightest importance to you. I'll sit and drink, because this is a pot-house, and I paid good money to get in. I'll sit and drink, because I regard you as pawns, nonexistent pawns. I'll sit and drink… and sing, if I like, yes, sirs, and sing, because I have the right… to sing… hm."
But I did not sing. I simply tried not to look at any of them; I assumed the most independent attitudes and waited impatiently for them to start talking to me first. But, alas, they didn't. And, oh, how I wished, how I wished at that moment to make peace with them! It struck eight o'clock, and finally nine. They moved from the table to the sofa. Zverkov sprawled on the couch, placing one foot on a little round table. The wine was also transferred there. Indeed, he did stand them to three bottles of his own. He did not offer me any, of course. Everyone sat clustered around him on the sofa. They listened to him with all but reverence. One could see he was loved. "But why? Why?" I kept thinking to myself. From time to time they would get into drunken raptures and kiss each other. They talked about the Caucasus, about what true passion is, about gambling, about profitable posts in the service; about how big was the income of the hussar Podkharzhevsky, whom none of them knew personally, and rejoiced that it was very big; about the remarkable beauty and grace of Princess D-, whom none of them had ever even seen; finally it came to Shakespeare being immortal.
I was smiling contemptuously and pacing the other side of the room, directly opposite the sofa, along the wall, from the table to the stove and back. I wished with all my might to show that I could do without them; and yet I purposely clumped with my boots, coming down hard on the heels. But all in vain. They paid no attention. I had patience enough to pace like that, right in front of them, from eight o'clock to eleven, in one and the same space, from the table to the stove, and from the stove back to the table. "I'm just pacing, and no one can tell me not to." A waiter who kept coming into the room paused several times to look at me; my head was spinning from so much turning; at moments I thought I was delirious. I sweated and dried out three times in those three hours. Every once in a while a thought pierced my heart with the deepest, most poisonous pain: that ten years, twenty years, forty years would pass, and even after forty years I would still recall with revulsion and humiliation these dirtiest, most ridiculous, and most terrible minutes of my entire life. For a man to humiliate himself more shamelessly and more voluntarily was really impossible, I fully, fully understood that, and still I went on pacing from the table to the stove and back. "Oh, if you only knew what feelings and thoughts I'm capable of, and how developed I am!" I thought at moments, mentally addressing the sofa where my enemies were sitting. But my enemies behaved as if I were not even in the room. Once, once only, they turned to me - namely, when Zverkov began talking about Shakespeare, and I suddenly guffawed contemptuously. I snorted so affectedly and nastily that they all broke off the conversation at once and silently watched me for about two minutes, seriously, without laughing, as I paced along the wall from table to stove and paid no attention to them. But nothing came of it; they did not start talking to me, and after two minutes dropped me again. It struck eleven.
"Gentlemen," cried Zverkov, rising from the sofa, "now let us all go there."
"Right, right!" the others began to say.
I turned sharply to Zverkov. I was so worn out, so broken, that I had to finish it even if it killed me! I was in a fever; my hair, wet with sweat, stuck to my forehead and temples.
"Zverkov! I ask your forgiveness," I said, abruptly and resolutely, "yours too, Ferfichkin, and everyone's, everyone's, I've offended everyone!"
"Aha! So dueling's not your sport!" Ferfichkin hissed venomously.
A sharp pain went through my heart.
"No, I'm not afraid of a duel, Ferfichkin! I'm ready to fight you tomorrow, even after a reconciliation. I even insist on it, and you cannot refuse me. I want to prove to you that I'm not afraid of a duel. You'll have the first shot, and I'll shoot into the air."
"He's indulging himself," remarked Simonov.
"Downright crackbrained!" echoed Trudolyubov.
"Let us pass, why're you standing in the way!… What do you want?" Zverkov responded contemptuously. Their faces were red; their eyes were shiny: they had drunk a lot.
"I ask your friendship, Zverkov, I offended you, but…"
"Y-y-you? Offended m-m-me? I'll have you know, my dear sir, that you could never under any circumstances offend me!"
"That's enough out of you. Step aside!" Trudolyubov clinched. Lets go.
"Olympia's mine, gentlemen, it's agreed!" cried Zverkov.
"No objections! No objections!" they answered, laughing.
I stood there spat upon. The bunch noisily left the room. Trudolyubov struck up some stupid song. Simonov stayed behind for a tiny moment to tip the waiters. I suddenly went over to him.
"Simonov! Give me six roubles!" I said, resolutely and desperately.
He looked at me in extreme astonishment, his eyes somehow dull. He, too, was drunk.
"You want to go there with us, too?"
"Yes!"
"I have no money!" he snapped, grinned scornfully, and started out of the room.
I seized him by his overcoat. It was a nightmare.
"Simonov! I saw you had money, why do you refuse me? Am
I a scoundrel? Beware of refusing me: if you knew, if you knew why I'm asking! Everything depends on it, my whole future, all my plans…"
Simonov took out the money and almost flung it at me.
"Take it, if you're so shameless!" he said pitilessly, and ran to catch up with them.
I remained alone for a moment. Disorder, leftovers, a broken wine glass on the floor, spilt wine, cigarette butts, drunkenness and delirium in my head, tormenting anguish in my heart, and, finally, the servant, who had seen everything and heard everything, and kept peeking curiously into my eyes.
"There!" I cried out. "Either they'll all fall on their knees, embrace my legs, and beg for my friendship, or… or I'll slap Zverkov's face!"
V
Here it is, here it is at last, the encounter with reality," I muttered, rushing headlong down the stairs. "This is no longer the Pope leaving Rome and going to Brazil; this is no longer a ball on Lake Como!"
"What a scoundrel you are," raced through my head, "to laugh at that now!"
"What of it!" I cried, answering myself. "All is lost now!"
Their trail was already cold; but no matter: I knew where they had gone.
By the porch stood a lonely jack, a night coachman, in a homespun coat all dusted with the still-falling wet and as if warm snow. It was steamy and stuffy. His shaggy little piebald nag was also all dusted with snow, and was coughing - I very much remember that. I rushed to the bast-covered sled; but as I raised my foot to get in, the recollection of the way Simonov had just given me the six roubles cut me down, and I dropped into the sled like a sack.
"No! Much must be done to redeem it all!" I cried out, "but I will redeem it, or perish on the spot this very night! Drive!"
We set off. A whole whirlwind was spinning in my head.
"Beg for my friendship on their knees - that they won't do. It's a mirage, a vulgar mirage, revolting, romantic, and fantastic; another ball on Lake Como. And therefore I must slap Zverkov's face! It's my duty. And so, it's decided; I'm flying now to slap his face."
"Faster!"
The jack started snapping the reins.
"I'll do it as soon as I walk in. Ought I to say a few words first, as a preface to the slap? No! I'll just walk in and slap him. They'll all be sitting in the drawing room, and he'll be on the sofa with Olympia. Cursed Olympia! She laughed at my face once and refused me. I'll pull Olympia by the hair, and Zverkov by the ears! No, better by one ear, and by that ear I'll lead him around the whole room. They'll probably all start beating me and kick me out. It's even certain. Let them! Still, I slapped' him first: it was my initiative; and by the code of honor - that's everything; he's branded now, and no beating can wash away that slap, but only a duel. He'll have to fight. Yes, and let them beat me now. Let them, ignoble as they are! Trudolyubov especially will do the beating - he's so strong; Ferfichkin will fasten on from the side, and certainly grab my hair, that's sure. But let them, let them! I'm ready for it. Their sheep's noddles will finally be forced to grasp the tragic in it all! As they're dragging me to the door I'll cry out to them that in fact they're not worth my little finger."