They were all flushed, their eyes were bright: they had been drinking heavily. “I ask for your friendship, Zverkov; I insulted you, but ...” “Insulted? _You_ insulted _me?_ Understand, sir, that you never, under any circumstances, could possibly insult _me_.” “And that’s enough for you. Out of the way!” concluded Trudolyubov. “Olympia is mine, friends, that’s agreed!” cried Zverkov. “We won’t dispute your right, we won’t dispute your right,” the others answered, laughing. I stood as though spat upon. The party went noisily out of the room. Trudolyubov struck up some stupid song. Simonov remained behind for a moment to tip the waiters. I suddenly went up to him. “Simonov! give me six roubles!” I said, with desperate resolution. He looked at me in extreme amazement, with vacant eyes. He, too, was drunk. “You don’t mean you are coming with us?” “Yes.” “I’ve no money,” he snapped out, and with a scornful laugh he went out of the room. I clutched at 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 am asking! My whole future, my whole plans depend upon it!” Simonov pulled out the money and almost flung it at me. “Take it, if you have no sense of shame!” he pronounced pitilessly, and ran to overtake them. I was left for a moment alone. Disorder, the remains of dinner, a broken wine-glass on the floor, spilt wine, cigarette ends, fumes of drink and delirium in my brain, an agonising misery in my heart and finally the waiter, who had seen and heard all and was looking inquisitively into my face. “I am going there!” I cried. “Either they shall all go down on their knees to beg for my friendship, or I will give Zverkov a slap in the face!” V “So this is it, this is it at last—contact with real life,” I muttered as I ran headlong downstairs. “This is very different from the Pope’s leaving Rome and going to Brazil, very different from the ball on Lake Como!” “You are a scoundrel,” a thought flashed through my mind, “if you laugh at this now.” “No matter!” I cried, answering myself. “Now everything is lost!” There was no trace to be seen of them, but that made no difference—I knew where they had gone. At the steps was standing a solitary night sledge-driver in a rough peasant coat, powdered over with the still falling, wet, and as it were warm, snow. It was hot and steamy. The little shaggy piebald horse was also covered with snow and coughing, I remember that very well. I made a rush for the roughly made sledge; but as soon as I raised my foot to get into it, the recollection of how Simonov had just given me six roubles seemed to double me up and I tumbled into the sledge like a sack. “No, I must do a great deal to make up for all that,” I cried. “But I will make up for it or perish on the spot this very night. Start!” We set off. There was a perfect whirl in my head.