Текст книги "Notes from Underground"

Автор книги: Fyodor Dostoevsky

Соавторы: Fyodor Dostoevsky
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"Why twenty-one?" I said, somewhat agitated, apparently even offended. "If you count me, it's twenty-eight roubles, not twenty-one."

It seemed to me that to offer myself suddenly and so unexpectedly would even be a most handsome thing, and they would all be won over at once and look upon me with respect.

"You want to come, too?" Simonov remarked with displeasure, somehow avoiding my eyes. He knew me by heart.

It infuriated me that he knew me by heart.

"What of it, sir? I would seem to be a schoolfellow, too, and I confess I'm even offended at being left out," I began seething again.

"And where does one go looking for you?" Ferfichkin rudely butted in.

"You were never on good terms with Zverkov," Trudolyubov added, frowning. But once I had fastened on, I would not let go.

"It seems to me that no one has any right to judge about that," I retorted, in a trembling voice, as if God knows what had happened. "Maybe that's precisely why I want to now, because we weren't on good terms before."

"Well, who can understand you… and these sublimities…" Trudolyubov smirked.

"You'll be put on the list," Simonov decided, turning to me. "Tomorrow, five o'clock, the Hotel de Paris; make no mistake."

"And the money!" Ferfichkin tried to begin, in a half-whisper, nodding towards me to Simonov, but he stopped short, because even Simonov became embarrassed.

"Enough," said Trudolyubov, rising. "Let him come, if he wants to so much."

"But we have our own circle, we're friends," Ferfichkin, angry, was also reaching for his hat. "This isn't an official meeting. Maybe we don't want you at all…"

They left; Ferfichkin did not even bow to me as he went out; Trudolyubov barely nodded, without looking. Simonov, with whom I was left face to face, was in some sort of annoyed perplexity and gave me a strange glance. He did not sit down, nor did he invite me to sit down.

"Hm… yes… tomorrow, then. And will you give me the money now? Just to know for certain," he muttered in embarrassment.

I flushed, but as I flushed I recalled that I had owed Simonov fifteen roubles from time immemorial, which, however, I had never forgotten, though I also had never repaid it.

"You must see, Simonov, that I couldn't have known on coming here… and I'm very annoyed with myself for forgetting…"

"All right, all right, never mind. You can pay tomorrow at dinner. I just wanted to know… Please don't…"

He stopped short and began pacing the room with even greater annoyance. As he paced, he started planting his heels and stomping still more heavily.

"I'm not keeping you, am I?" I asked, after a two-minute silence.

"Oh, no!" he suddenly roused himself, "that is, to tell the truth – yes. You see, I've also got to stop by at… Not far from here…" he added, in a sort of apologetic voice, and somewhat ashamedly.

"Ah, my God! Why didn't you say so!" I exclaimed, grabbing my cap, but with an appearance of remarkable nonchalance, which flew down to me from God knows where.

"It's not far, really…Just a couple of steps…" Simonov kept saying as he saw me to the entryway with a bustling air that did not become him at all. "Tomorrow, then, at five o'clock sharp!" he called out as I went down the stairs: he was so pleased I was leaving. I, however, was furious.

"What possessed me, what possessed me to pop up like that!" I gnashed my teeth, striding along the street. "And for that scoundrel, that little pig of a Zverkov! I mustn't go, of course; just spit on it, of course; I'm not bound, am I? Tomorrow I'll send Simonov a note…"

But what made me furious was that I knew I would certainly go; I would go on purpose; and the more tactless, the more improper it was for me to go, the sooner I would go.

And there was even a positive obstacle to my going: I had no money. All I had lying there was nine roubles. But of that, seven had to go the next day for the wages of Apollon, my servant, who lived with me for seven roubles a month, grub not included.

And not to pay him his wages was impossible, given Apollon's character. But of this dog, this thorn in my side, I will speak some other time.

Nevertheless, I knew that even so I would not pay him, but would certainly go.

That night I had the most hideous dreams. No wonder: all evening I was oppressed by recollections of the penal servitude of my school years, and I could not get rid of them. I had been tucked away in that school by distant relations whose dependent I was and of whom I had no notion thereafter – tucked away, orphaned, already beaten down by their reproaches, already pensive, taciturn, gazing wildly about at everything. My school fellows met me with spiteful and merciless derision, because I was not like any of them. But I could not endure derision; I could not get along so cheaply as they got along with each other. I immediately began to hate them, and shut myself away from everyone in timorous, wounded, and inordinate pride. Their crudeness outraged me. They laughed cynically at my face, my ungainly figure; and yet how stupid their own faces were! In our school facial expressions degenerated and would become somehow especially stupid. So many beautiful children came to us. A few years later it was disgusting even to look at them. Already at the age of sixteen I gloomily marveled at them; even then I was amazed at the pettiness of their thinking, the stupidity of their pastimes, games, conversations. They had so little understanding of the most essential things, so little interest in the most impressive, startling subjects, that I began, willy-nilly, to regard them as beneath me. It was not injured vanity that prompted me to do so, and for God's sake don't come creeping at me with those banal objections that one is sick of to the point of nausea – "that I was only dreaming, while they already understood real life." They understood nothing, no real life, and I swear it was this in them that outraged me most of all. On the contrary, they took the most obvious, glaring reality in a fantastically stupid way, and were already accustomed to worshiping success alone. Everything that was just, but humiliated and downtrodden, they laughed at disgracefully and hardheartedly. They regarded rank as intelligence; at the age of sixteen they were already talking about cushy billets. Of course, much of this came from stupidity, from the bad examples that had ceaselessly surrounded their childhood and adolescence. They were depraved to the point of monstrosity. To be sure, here, too, there was more of the external, more of an assumed cynicism; to be sure, youthfulness and a certain freshness could be glimpsed in them even through the depravity; but even this freshness was unattractive in them and showed itself as a sort of knavery. I hated them terribly, though I was perhaps worse than they were. They paid me back in kind and did not conceal their loathing for me. But I no longer had any wish for their love; on the contrary, I constantly thirsted for their humiliation. To rid myself of their derision, I purposely began to study as hard as I could and worked my way into the number of the best. This made an impression. Besides, they began little by little to realize that I had by then read such books as they were unable to read, and understood such things (not part of our special course) as they had never even heard of. This they regarded wildly and derisively, but morally they submitted, the more so as even the teachers paid attention to me in this respect. The derision stopped, but the animosity remained, and cold, strained relations set in. Towards the end I myself could not stand it: as I grew older, a need for people, for friends, developed. I tried to start getting closer with some; but the attempt always came out unnaturally and would simply end of itself. I also once had a friend. But I was already a despot in my soul; I wanted to have unlimited power over his soul; I wanted to instill in him a contempt for his surrounding milieu; I demanded of him a haughty and final break with that milieu. I frightened him with my passionate friendship; I drove him to tears, to convulsions; he was a naive, self-giving soul; but once he had given himself wholly to me, I immediately started to hate him and pushed him away – as if I had needed him only to gain a victory over him, only to bring him into subjection. But I could not be victorious over everyone; my friend was also not like any of them, and represented the rarest exception. The first thing I did upon leaving school was quit the special service for which I had been intended, in order to break all ties, to curse the past and bury it in the dust… And the devil knows why, after that, I dragged myself to this Simonov!…

In the morning I roused myself early, I jumped out of bed in agitation, as if all this was going to start happening right away. But then I did believe that some radical break in my life was coming and could not fail to come that very day. It may have been lack of habit or something, but all my life, when faced with any external event, be it ever so small, I always thought that right then some radical break in my life was going to come. Nevertheless, I went to work as usual, but slipped away two hours early to go home and get ready. The main thing, I thought, is that I mustn't be the first to arrive, or they'll think I'm all too delighted. But there were thousands of such main things, and they all agitated me to the point of impotence. I polished my boots a second time with my own hands; for the life of him Apollon would not have polished them twice in one day, finding it inordinate. I polished them, therefore, having stolen the brushes from the entryway so that he would not somehow notice and afterwards begin to despise me. Then I carefully inspected my clothes and found that everything was old, shabby, worn out. I had indeed become too slovenly. My uniform was perhaps in good condition, but I really couldn't go to dinner in my uniform. And the main thing was that on my trousers, right on the knee, there was a huge yellow spot. I could sense already that this spot alone would rob me of nine-tenths of my dignity. I also knew that it was very mean to think so. "But I can't be bothered with thinking now; now comes reality," I thought, and my heart sank. I also knew perfectly well, even then, that I was monstrously exaggerating all these facts; but there was nothing to be done: I could no longer control myself, I was shaking with fever. In despair I pictured how coldly and condescendingly that "scoundrel" Zverkov would meet me; with what dull, all-invincible contempt the dullard Trudolyubov would look at me; how nastily and impudently that little snot Ferfichkin would titter at my expense, sucking up to Zverkov; how perfectly Simonov would understand it all in himself, and how he would despise me for the meanness of my vanity and faintheartedness; and, the main thing – how measly, non– literary, commonplace it was all going to be. Of course, it would be best not to go at all. But that was more impossible than anything else: once I began to be drawn, I used to be drawn in all the way, over my head. Afterwards I'd have been taunting myself for the rest of my life: "So you turned coward, turned coward before reality, that's what you did, you turned coward!" On the contrary, I passionately wanted to prove to all that

"riffraff" that I was by no means the coward I made myself out to be. More than that: in the strongest paroxysm of cowardly fever, I dreamed of getting the best of them, winning them over, carrying them away, making them love me – if only for my "lofty mind and indubitable wit." They would drop Zverkov, he would sit on the sidelines, silent and ashamed, and I would crush him. Afterwards I would perhaps make peace with him, and we would pledge eternal friendship, yet the most bitter and offensive thing for me was that I knew even then, knew fully and certainly, that in fact I needed none of that, and in fact I had no wish to crush, subject, or attract them, and would be the first not to give a penny for the whole outcome, even if I achieved it. Oh, how I prayed to God for that day to pass more quickly! In inexpressible anguish I kept going to the window, opening the vent, and peering into the dull darkness of thickly falling wet snow…

At last my wretched little wall clock hissed five. I grabbed my hat and, trying not to glance at Apollon – who since morning had been waiting to receive his wages from me, but in his pride refused to speak first – slipped past him out the door, and in a coach hired for the purpose with my last fifty kopecks, drove up like a grand gentleman to the Hotel de Paris.

IV

I had already known the evening before that I would be the first to arrive. But primacy was no longer the point. Not only were none of them there, but I even had difficulty finding our room. The table was not quite laid yet. What did it mean? After much questioning, I finally got out of the waiters that the dinner had been ordered for six o'clock, not five. This was confirmed in the bar. I was even ashamed to be asking. It was only five twenty-five. If they had changed the time, they ought in any case to have informed me; that's what the city mail is for; and not to have subjected me to "disgrace" both in my own and… be it only the waiters' eyes. I sat down; a waiter began laying the table; in his presence it felt somehow still more offensive. By six o'clock, in addition to the lighted lamps, candles were brought into the room. It had not occurred to the waiter, however, to bring them when I arrived. In the next room two customers, gloomy, angry-looking, and silent, were having dinner at separate tables. In one of the farther rooms it was very noisy; there was even shouting; the guffaws of a whole bunch of people could be heard; some nasty French squeals could be heard: it was a dinner with ladies. Quite nauseating, in short. Rarely have I spent a nastier moment, so that when, at exactly six o'clock, they all came in together, I was glad of them for the first moment as of some sort of deliverers, and almost forgot that I ought to look offended.

Zverkov came at the head of them, obviously the leader. Both he and they were laughing; but on seeing me Zverkov assumed a dignified air, approached unhurriedly, bending slightly, as if coquettishly, at the waist, and gave me his hand benignly, but not very, with a certain cautious, almost senatorial politeness, as if by offering me his hand he were protecting himself from something. I had been imagining, on the contrary, that as soon as he walked in he would start laughing his former laugh, shrill, punctuated by little shrieks, and from the first there would be his flat jokes and witticisms. I had been preparing myself for them since the previous evening, but I by no means expected such down-the-nose, such excellential benignity. So he now fully considered himself immeasurably superior to me in all respects? If he simply wanted to offend me with this senatorial air, it was not so bad, I thought; I'd be able to get back at him somehow. But what if indeed, without any wish to offend me, the little idea had seriously crept into his sheep's noddle that he was immeasurably superior to me, and could look at me in no other way than patronizingly? The supposition alone left me breathless.

"I learned with surprise of your wish to participate with us," he began, lisping and simpering and drawing the words out, something that had never happened with him before. "We somehow keep missing each other. You shy away from us.

More's the pity. We're not so terrible as you think. Well, sir, in any case I'm gla-a-ad to rene-e-ew…"

And he casually turned to place his hat on the windowsill.

"Have you been waiting long?" asked Trudolyubov.

"I arrived at exactly five o'clock, as I was appointed yesterday," I answered loudly and with an irritation that promised an imminent explosion.

"Didn't you inform him that the time had been changed?" Trudolyubov turned to Simonov.

"I didn't. I forgot," the latter answered, but without any repentance, and, not even apologizing to me, went to make arrangements for the hors d'oeuvres.

"So you've been here for an hour already, ah, poor fellow!" Zverkov exclaimed derisively, because according to his notions it must indeed have been terribly funny. Following him, the scoundrel Ferfichkin broke up, in his scoundrelly voice, yelping like a little mutt. He, too, thought my situation terribly funny and embarrassing.

"It's not funny in the least!" I cried to Ferfichkin, growing more and more irritated. "It's other people's fault, not mine. They neglected to inform me. It – it – it's… simply absurd."

"Not only absurd, but something else as well," Trudolyubov grumbled, naively interceding for me. "You're too mild. Sheer discourtesy. Not deliberate, of course. But how is it that Simonov… hm!"

"If that had been played on me," observed Ferfichkin,

"I'd…"

"But you should have ordered yourself something," Zverkov interrupted, "or just asked to have dinner without waiting."

"You must agree that I could have done so without any permission," I snapped. "If I waited, it was…"

"Let's be seated, gentlemen," cried the entering Simonov, "everything's ready; I can answer for the champagne, it's perfectly chilled…I didn't know your address, how was one to find you?" he suddenly turned to me, but again somehow without looking at me. He obviously had something against me. He must have changed his mind since yesterday.

Everyone sat down; I, too, sat down. The table was round. Trudolyubov ended up on my left, Simonov on my right. Zverkov sat down across the table, and Ferfichkin next to him, between him and Trudolyubov.

"So-o-o, you're… in the department?" Zverkov continued to occupy himself with me. Seeing that I was embarrassed, he seriously imagined I must be treated benignly and, so to speak, encouraged. "What, does he want me to throw a bottle at him or something?" I thought, furious. From lack of habit, I was becoming irritated with a somehow unnatural rapidity.

"In the -y office," I answered curtly, staring at my plate.

"And… you fffind it profffitable? Tell me, ple-e-ease, what wa-a-as it that made you leave your former position?"

"It wa-a-a-as that I felt like leaving my former position," I drawled three times longer, now losing almost all control of myself. Ferfichkin snorted. Simonov looked at me ironically; Trudolyubov stopped eating and began studying me with curiosity.

Zverkov winced, but declined to notice.

"We-e-ell, and how's your keep?"

"What keep?"

"Your sssalary, that is."

"Quite the examiner, aren't you!"

However, I told him straight out what my salary was. I was blushing terribly.

"Not a fortune," Zverkov observed pompously.

"No, sir, can't go dining in cafe-restaurants!" Ferfichkin added impudently.

"In my opinion, it's even downright poor," Trudolyubov observed seriously.

"And how thin you've grown, how changed… since…" Zverkov added, not without venom now, studying me and my attire with a sort of insolent regret.

"Oh, come, stop embarrassing him," Ferfichkin exclaimed, tittering.

"My dear sir, I'll have you know that I am not embarrassed," I finally exploded, "do you hear, sir! I am having dinner here, in a 'cafe-restaurant,' at my own expense, my own and no one else's, make a note of that, Monsieur Ferfichkin."

"Wha-a-at? And who here is not dining at his own expense? If you mean to…" Ferfichkin fastened on, turning red as a lobster and staring me furiously in the face.

"We-e-ell," I replied, feeling that I had gone too far, "I suppose we'd better occupy ourselves with more intelligent conversation."

"So you intend to display your intelligence?"

"Don't worry, that would be quite superfluous here."

"You just keep cackling away, eh, my dear sir? Haven't lost your mind, by any chance, in that de pot ment of yours?"

"Enough, gentlemen, enough!" Zverkov cried almightily.

"How stupid this is!" growled Simonov.

"Stupid indeed; we gathered as a company of friends to see a good school chum off on his journey, and you go keeping score," Trudolyubov began to speak, rudely addressing me alone. "You invited yourself yesterday, so don't disrupt the general harmony…"

"Enough, enough," Zverkov shouted. "Stop, gentlemen, this won't do. Better let me tell you how I almost got married two days ago…"

And there followed some lampoon about how the gentleman almost got married two days before. There was, however, not a word in it about marriage, but generals, colonels, and even court dignitaries kept flitting through the story, with Zverkov among them and all but at their head. Approving laughter began; Ferfichkin even let out little squeals.

They all dropped me, and I sat crushed and annihilated.

"Lord, is this any company for me!" I thought. "And what a fool I made of myself before them! However, I let Ferfichkin go too far. These oafs think they've done me an honor by giving me a place at their table; they don't realize that it's I, I, who am doing them an honor, and not they me! 'How thin! Such clothes!' Oh, cursed trousers! Zverkov has already noticed the yellow spot on the knee… But what's the point! Get up from the table, now, this minute, take your hat, and simply leave without saying a word… Out of scorn! And tomorrow, if they like, a duel. Scoundrels. Am I going to be sorry about seven roubles? Maybe they'll think… Devil take it! I'm not sorry about the seven roubles! I'm leaving this minute!…"

Of course, I stayed.

I drank Lafite and sherry by the glassful in my grief. From lack of habit I was quickly getting drunk, and as my drunkenness increased, so did my vexation. I suddenly wanted to insult them all in the boldest fashion, and only then leave. To seize the right moment and show myself; let them say: he's funny, but no dummy… and… and… in short, devil take them.

I insolently looked around at them all with bleary eyes. But it was as if they had already forgotten me entirely… They were having a noisy, loud, merry time for themselves. Zverkov kept on talking. I began to listen. Zverkov was telling about some magnificent lady whom he had finally driven to a declaration (naturally he was lying like a horse), and that he had been especially helped in this matter by his intimate friend, some princeling named Kolya, a hussar, owner of three thousand souls.

"And yet there's no sign of this Kolya, owner of three thousand souls, at your farewell party," I suddenly butted in to the conversation. For a moment everyone fell silent.

"So, now you're drunk," Trudolyubov finally consented to notice me, casting a sidelong, contemptuous glance in my direction. Zverkov silently studied me as if I were a little bug. I lowered my eyes. Simonov hurriedly began pouring champagne.

Trudolyubov raised his glass; everyone did the same, except for me.

"Your health, and a good journey!" he cried to Zverkov. "To those old years, gentlemen, to our future! Hurrah!"

Everyone drank and fell to kissing Zverkov. I did not budge; the full glass stood untouched before me.

"You're not going to drink?" Trudolyubov, having lost all patience, roared, turning to me threateningly.

"I wish to make a speech on my own part, separately… and then I will drink, Mr Trudolyubov."

"Disgusting little stinker," Simonov growled.

I straightened up on my chair and feverishly took my glass, preparing for something extraordinary, and still not knowing myself precisely what I was going to say.

" Silence!" Ferfichkin called out in French. "Here comes all kinds of intelligence!" Zverkov listened very seriously, realizing what was going on.

"Lieutenant Zverkov, sir," I began, "let it be known to you that I hate phrases, phrase-mongers, and tight-fitting waists… That is the first point, and the second will follow forthwith."

Everyone stirred greatly.

"Second point: I hate gallantry and gallantizers. Especially gallantizers!

"Third point: I love truth, sincerity, and honesty," I went on almost mechanically, because I was already beginning to go numb with horror, unable to understand how I could be speaking this way… "I love thought, M'sieur Zverkov; I love true friendship, on an equal footing, and not… hm… I love… However, why not? I, too, shall drink to your health, M'sieur Zverkov. Charm the Circassian girls, shoot the enemies of the fatherland, and… and… To your health, M'sieur Zverkov!"

Zverkov rose from his chair, bowed to me, and said:

"Much obliged to you."

He was terribly offended, and even turned pale.

"Devil take it," roared Trudolyubov, banging his fist on the table.

"No, sir, it's a punch in the mug for that!" Ferfichkin shrieked.

"He ought to be thrown out!" Simonov growled.

"Not a word, gentlemen, not a move!" Zverkov cried solemnly, checking the general indignation. "I thank you all, but I myself am quite capable of proving to him how much I value his words."

"Mr Ferfichkin, tomorrow you will give me satisfaction for your present words!" I said loudly, pompously addressing Ferfichkin.

"You mean a duel, sir? At your pleasure," the man answered, but I must have been so ridiculous with my challenge, and it was so unsuited to my figure, that everyone, and finally even Ferfichkin, simply fell over laughing.

"Yes, drop him, of course! He's completely drunk now!" Trudolyubov said with loathing.

"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.