White nights, and other storiesDostoyevsky, Fyodor
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White nights, and other stories
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor
Dostoyevsky, Fyodor, 1821-1881 -- Translations into English; Russian fiction -- Translations into English
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!
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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