Notes From The Underground 58

I was actually on the point of tears, though I knew per-fectly well at that moment that all this was out of Pushkin’s SILVIO and Lermontov’s MASQUERADE. And all at once I felt horribly ashamed, so ashamed that I stopped the horse, got out of the sledge, and stood still in the snow in the middle of the street. The driver gazed at me, sighing and astonished.

What was I to do? I could not go on there—it was evidently stupid, and I could not leave things as they were, because that would seem as though ... Heavens, how could I leave things! And after such insults! ‘No!’ I cried, throwing myself into the sledge again. ‘It is ordained! It is fate! Drive on, drive on!’

And in my impatience I punched the sledge-driver on the back of the neck.

‘What are you up to? What are you hitting me for?’ the peasant shouted, but he whipped up his nag so that it began kicking.

The wet snow was falling in big flakes; I unbuttoned my-self, regardless of it. I forgot everything else, for I had finally decided on the slap, and felt with horror that it was going to happen NOW, AT ONCE, and that NO FORCE COULD STOP IT. The deserted street lamps gleamed sullenly in the snowy darkness like torches at a funeral. The snow drifted under my great-coat, under my coat, under my cravat, and melted there. I did not wrap myself up—all was lost, any-way.

At last we arrived. I jumped out, almost unconscious, ran up the steps and began knocking and kicking at the door. I felt fearfully weak, particularly in my legs and knees. The door was opened quickly as though they knew I was coming. As a fact, Simonov had warned them that perhaps another gentleman would arrive, and this was a place in which one had to give notice and to observe certain precau-tions. It was one of those ‘millinery establishments’ which were abolished by the police a good time ago. By day it re-ally was a shop; but at night, if one had an introduction, one might visit it for other purposes.

To be contd..