But of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could not

endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked his sword in a

disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months over

that sword. At last I got the better of him. He left off clanking it. That

happened in my youth, though.

But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite?

Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that continually,

even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with

shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man,

that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing myself by it. I

might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of

tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be

genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards

and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way.

I was lying when I said just now that I was a spiteful official. I was

lying from spite. I was simply amusing myself with the petitioners and with

the officer, and in reality I never could become spiteful. I was conscious

every moment in myself of many, very many elements absolutely opposite to

that. I felt them positively swarming in me, these opposite elements.

I knew that they had been swarming in me all my life and craving

some outlet from me, but I would not let them, would not let them,

purposely would not let them come out. They tormented me till I was

ashamed: they drove me to convulsions and--sickened me, at last, how

they sickened me! Now, are not you fancying, gentlemen, that I am

expressing remorse for something now, that I am asking your forgiveness

for something? I am sure you are fancying that ... However, I assure you

I do not care if you are. ...

It was not only that I could not become spiteful, I did not know how to

become anything; neither spiteful nor kind, neither a rascal nor an honest

man, neither a hero nor an insect. Now, I am living out my life in my

corner, taunting myself with the spiteful and useless consolation that an

intelligent man cannot become anything seriously, and it is only the fool

who becomes anything. Yes, a man in the nineteenth century must and

morally ought to be pre-eminently a characterless creature; a man of

character, an active man is pre-eminently a limited creature. That is my

conviction of forty years. I am forty years old now, and you know forty

years is a whole lifetime; you know it is extreme old age. To live longer

than forty years is bad manners, is vulgar, immoral. Who does live

beyond forty? Answer that, sincerely and honestly I will tell you who do:

fools and worthless fellows. I tell all old men that to their face, all these

venerable old men, all these silver-haired and reverend seniors! I tell the

whole world that to its face! I have a right to say so, for I shall go on

living to sixty myself. To seventy! To eighty! ... Stay, let me

take breath ...

You imagine no doubt, gentlemen, that I want to amuse you.