CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER INDEX
CHAPTER 5
THE DOUBLE
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
DOPPLEGANGER
William Wilson
Edgar Allan Poe
The Double
Foydor Dostoevsky
Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde
Robert Louis Stephenson
THEORY
Dada Manifesto
Hugo Ball, 1916
Tristan Tzara, 1918
Surrealist Manifesto
Andre Breton, 1924
Andre Breton, 1925
Andre Breton, 1934
POETRY
My God
Nah Nah Nah
Themes of the Unknown
The Abstract & the Ambiguous
Drunken
RELIGION
Profits of Religion
Upton Sinclair
Young Goodman Brown
Nathaniel Hawthorne
The Blithedale Romance
Nathaniel Hawthorne
LOUISMARLOWE.COM
Chapter IV
That day the birthday of Klara Olsufyevna, the only daughter
of the civil councillor, Berendyev, at one time Mr.
Golyadkin's benefactor and patron, was being celebrated by
a brilliant and sumptuous dinner-party, such as had not been
seen for many a long day within the walls of the flats in the
neighbourhood of Ismailovsky Bridge - a dinner more like
some Balthazar's feast, with a suggestion of something
Babylonian in its brilliant luxury and style, with
Veuve-Clicquot champagne, with oysters and fruit from
Eliseyev's and Milyutin's, with all sorts of fatted calves, and
all grades of the government service. This festive day was to
conclude with a brilliant ball, a small birthday ball, but yet
brilliant in its taste, its distinction and its style. Of course, I
am willing to admit that similar balls do happen sometimes,
though rarely. Such balls, more like family rejoicings than
balls, can only be given in such houses as that of the civil
councillor, Berendyev. I will say more: I even doubt if such
balls could be given in the houses of all civil councillors.
Oh, if I were a poet! such as Homer or Pushkin, I mean, of
course; with any lesser talent one would not venture - I
should certainly have painted all that glorious day for you,
oh, my readers, with a free brush and brilliant colours! Yes,
I should begin my poem with my dinner, I should lay special
stress on that striking and solemn moment when the first
goblet was raised to the honour of the queen of the fete. I
should describe to you the guests plunged in a reverent
silence and expectation, as eloquent as the rhetoric of
Demosthenes; I should describe for you, then, how Andrey
Filippovitch, having as the eldest of the guests some right to
take precedence, adorned with his grey hairs and the orders
what well befit grey hairs, got up from his seat and raised
above his head the congratulatory glass of sparkling wine -
brought from a distant kingdom to celebrate such occasions
and more like heavenly nectar than plain wine. I would
portray for you the guests and the happy parents raising their
glasses, too, after Andrey Filippovitch, and fastening upon
him eyes full of expectation. I would describe for you how
the same Andrey Filippovitch, so often mentioned, after
dropping a tear in his glass, delivered his congratulations and
good wishes, proposed the toast and drank the health . . . but
I confess, I freely confess, that I could not do justice to the
solemn moment when the queen of the fete, Klara
Olsufyevna, blushing like a rose in spring, with the glow of
bliss and of modesty, was so overcome by her feelings that
she sank into the arms of her tender mamma; how that tender
mamma shed tears, and how the father, Olsufy Ivanovitch, a
hale old man and a privy councillor, who had lost the use of
his legs in his long years of service and been rewarded by
destiny for his devotion with investments, a house, some
small estates, and a beautiful daughter, sobbed like a little
child and announced through his tears that his Excellency
was a benevolent man. I could not, I positively could not,
describe the enthusiasm that followed that moment in every
heart, an enthusiasm clearly evinced in the conduct of a
youthful register clerk (though at that moment he was more
like a civil councillor than a register clerk), who was moved
to tears, too, as he listened to Andrey Filippovitch. In his
turn, too, Andrey Filippovitch was in that solemn moment
quite unlike a collegiate councillor and the head of an office
in the department - yes, he was something else . . . what,
exactly, I do not know, but not a collegiate councillor. He
was more exalted! Finally . . . Oh, why do I not possess the
secret of lofty, powerful language, of the sublime style, to
describe these grand and edifying moments of human life,
which seem created expressly to prove that virtue sometimes
triumphs over ingratitude, free-thinking, vice and envy! I
will say nothing, but in silence - which will be better than
any eloquence - I will point to that fortunate youth, just
entering on his twenty-sixth spring - to Vladimir
Semyonovitch, Andrey Filippovitch's nephew, who in his
turn now rose from his seat, who in his turn proposed a toast,
and upon whom were fastened the tearful eyes of the parents,
the proud eyes of Andrey Filippovitch, the modest eyes of
the queen of the fete, the solemn eyes of the guests and even
the decorously envious eyes of some of the young man's
youthful colleagues. I will say nothing of that, though I
cannot refrain from observing that everything in that young
man - who was, indeed, speaking in a complimentary sense,
more like an elderly than a young man - everything, from his
blooming cheeks to his assessorial rank seemed almost to
proclaim aloud the lofty pinnacle a man can attain through
morality and good principles! I will not describe how Anton
Antonovitch Syetotochkin, a little old man as grey as a
badger, the head clerk of a department, who was a colleague
of Andrey Filippovitch's and had once been also of Olsufy
Ivanovitch's, and was an old friend of the family and Klara
Olsufyevna's godfather, in his turn proposed a toast, crowed
like a cock, and cracked many little jokes; how by this
extremely proper breach of propriety, if one may use such an
expression, he made the whole company laugh till they cried,
and how Klara Olsufyevna, at her parents' bidding, rewarded
him for his jocularity and politeness with a kiss. I will only
say that the guests, who must have felt like kinsfolk and
brothers after such a dinner, at last rose from the table, and
the elderly and more solid guests, after a brief interval spent
in friendly conversation, interspersed with some candid,
though, of course, very polite and proper observations, went
decorously into the next room and, without losing valuable
time, promptly divided themselves up into parties and, full of
the sense of their own dignity, installed themselves at tables
covered with green baize. Meanwhile, the ladies established
in the drawing-room suddenly became very affable and
began talking about dress-materials. And the venerable host,
who had lost the use of his legs in the service of loyalty and
religion, and had been rewarded with all the blessings we
have enumerated above, began walking about on crutches
among his guests, supported by Vladimir Semyonovitch and
Klara Olsufyevna, and he, too, suddenly becoming extremely
affable, decided to improvise a modest little dance, regardless
of expense; to that end a nimble youth (the one who was
more like a civil councillor than a youth) was despatched to
fetch musicians, and musicians to the number of eleven
arrived, and exactly at half-past eight struck up the inviting
strains of a French quadrille, followed by various other
dances. . . . It is needless to say that my pen is too weak, dull,
and spiritless to describe the dance that owed its inspiration
to the genial hospitality of the grey-headed host. And how,
I ask, can the modest chronicler of Mr. Golyadkin's
adventures, extremely interesting as they are in their own
way, how can I depict the choice and rare mingling of
beauty, brilliance, style, gaiety, polite solidity and solid
politeness, sportiveness, joy, all the mirth and playfulness of
these wives and daughters of petty officials, more like fairies
than ladies - in a complimentary sense - with their lily
shoulders and their rosy faces, their ethereal figures, their
playfully agile homeopathic - to use the exalted language
appropriate - little feet? How can I describe to you, finally,
the gallant officials, their partners - gay and solid youths,
steady, gleeful, decorously vague, smoking a pipe in the
intervals between the dancing in a little green room apart, or
not smoking a pipe in the intervals between the dances, every
one of them with a highly respectable surname and rank in
the service - all steeped in a sense of the elegant and a sense
of their own dignity; almost all speaking French to their
partners, or if Russian, using only the most well-bred
expressions, compliments and profound observations, and
only in the smoking -room permitting themselves some
genial lapses from this high tone, some phrases of cordial and
friendly brevity, such, for instance, as: "'Pon my soul, Petka,
you rake, you did kick me off that polka in style," or, "I say,
Vasya, you dog, you did give your partner a time of it." For
all this, as I've already had the honour of explaining, oh, my
readers! my pen fails me, and therefore I am dumb. Let us
rather return to Mr. Golyadkin, the true and only hero of my
very truthful tale.
The fact is that he found himself now in a very strange
position, to the least of it. He was here also, gentlemen - that
is, not at the dance, but almost at the dance; he was "all right,
though; he could take care of himself," yet at that moment he
was a little astray; he was standing at that moment , strange
to say - on the landing of the back stairs to Olsufy
Ivanovitch's flat. But it was "all right" his standing there; he
was "quite well." He was standing in a corner, huddled in a
place which was not very warm, though it was dark, partly
hidden by a huge cupboard and an old screen, in the midst of
rubbish, litter, and odds and ends of all sorts, concealing
himself for the time being and watching the course of
proceedings as a disinterested spectator. He was only
looking on now, gentlemen; he, too, gentlemen, might go in,
of course . . . why should he not go in? He had only to take
one step and he would go in, and would go in very adroitly.
Just now, though he had been standing nearly three hours
between the cupboard and the screen in the midst of the
rubbish, litter and odds and ends of all sorts, he was only
quoting, in his own justification, a memorable phrase of the
French minister, Villesle: "All things come in time to him
who has the strength to wait." Mr. Golyadkin had read this
sentence in some book on quite a different subject, but now
very aptly recalled it. The phrase, to begin with, was
exceedingly appropriate to his present position, and, indeed,
why should it not occur to the mind of a man who had been
waiting for almost three hours in the cold and the dark in
expectation of a happy ending to his adventures. After
quoting very appropriately the phrase of the French minister,
Villesle, Mr. Golyadkin immediately thought of the Turkish
Vizier, Martsimiris, as well as of the beautiful Mergravine
Luise, whose story he had read also in some book. Then it
occurred to his mind that the Jesuits made it their rule that
any means were justified if only the end were attained.
Fortifying himself somewhat with this historical fact, Mr.
Golyadkin said to himself, What were the Jesuits? The
Jesuits were every one of them very great fools; that he was
better than any of them; that if only the refreshment-room
would be empty for one minute (the door of the
refreshment-room opened straight into the passage to the
back stairs, where Mr. Golyadkin was in hiding now), he
would, in spite of all the Jesuits in the world, go straight in,
first from the refreshment-room into the tea-room, then into
the room where they were now playing cards, and then
straight into the hall where they were now dancing the polka,
and he would go in - he would slip through - and that would
be all, no one would notice him; and once there he would
know what to do.
Well, so this is the position in which we find the hero of
our perfectly true story, though, indeed, it is difficult to
explain what was passing in him at that moment. The fact is
that he had made his way to the back of the stairs and to the
passage, on the ground that, as he said, "why shouldn't he?
and everyone did go that way?"; but he had not ventured to
penetrate further, evidently he did not dare to do so . . . "not
because there was anything he did not dare, but just because
he did not care to, because he preferred to be in hiding"; so
here he was, waiting now for a chance to slip in, and he had
been waiting for it two hours and a half. "Why not wait?
Villesle himself had waited. But what had Villesle to do
with it?" thought Mr. Golyadkin: "How does Villesle come
in? But how am I to . . . to go and walk in? . . . Ech, you
dummy!" said Mr. Golyadkin, pinching his benumbed cheek
with his benumbed fingers; "you silly fool, you silly old
Golyadkin - silly fool of a surname!" . . .
But these compliments paid to himself were only by the
way and without any apparent aim. Now he was on the point
of pushing forward and slipping in; the refreshment-room
was empty and no one was in sight. Mr. Golyadkin saw all
this through the little window; in two steps he was at the door
and had already opened it. "Should he go in or not? Come,
should he or not? I'll go in . . . why not? to the bold all ways
lie open!" Reassuring himself in this way, our hero suddenly
and quite unexpectedly retreated behind the screen. "No," he
thought. "Ah, now, somebody's coming in? Yes, they've
come in; why did I dawdle when there were no people about?
Even so, shall I go and slip in? . . . No, how slip in when a
man has such a temperament! Fie, what a low tendency! I'm
as scared as a hen! Being scared is our special line, that's the
fact of the matter! To be abject on every occasion is our line:
no need to ask us about that. Just stand here like a post and
that's all! At home I should be having a cup of tea now . . .
It would be pleasant, too, to have a cup of tea. If I come in
later Petrushka 'll grumble, maybe. Shall I go home?
Damnation take all this! I'll go and that'll be the end of it!"
Reflecting on his position in this way, Mr. Golyadkin dashed
forward as though some one had touched a spring in him; in
two steps he found himself in the refreshment-room, flung
off his overcoat, took off his hat, hurriedly thrust these things
into a corner, straightened himself and smoothed himself
down; then . . .then he moved on to the tea-room, and from
the tea-room darted into the next room, slipped almost
unnoticed between the card-players, who were at the tip-top
of excitement, then . . . Mr. Golyadkin forgot everything that
was going on about him, and went straight as an arrow into
the drawing room.
As luck would have it they were not dancing. The ladies
were promenading up and down the room in picturesque
groups. The gentlemen were standing about in twos and
threes or flitting about the room engaging partners. Mr.
Golyadkin noticed nothing of this. He saw only Klara
Olsufyevna, near her Andrey Filippovitch, then Vladimir
Semyonovitch, two or three officers, and, finally, two or
three other young men who were also very interesting and, as
any one could see at once, were either very promising or had
actually done something. . . . He saw some one else too. Or,
rather, he saw nobody and looked at nobody . . . but, moved
by the same spring which had sent him dashing into the midst
of a ball to which he had not been invited, he moved forward,
and then forwarder and forwarder. On the way he jostled
against a councillor and trod on his foot, and incidentally
stepped on a very venerable old lady's dress and tore it a
little, pushed against a servant with a tray and then ran
against somebody else, and, not noticing all this, passing
further and further forward, he suddenly found himself facing
Klara Olsufyevna. There is no doubt whatever that he
would, with the utmost delight, without winking an eyelid,
have sunk through the earth at that moment; but what has
once been done cannot be recalled . . . can never be recalled.
What was he to do? "If I fail I don't lose heart, if I succeed
I persevere." Mr. Golyadkin was, of course, not "one to
intrigue," and "not accomplished in the art of polishing the
floor with his boots." . . . And so, indeed, it proved. Besides,
the Jesuits had some hand in it too . . . though Mr. Golyadkin
had no thoughts to spare for them now! All the moving,
noisy, laughing groups were suddenly hushed as though at a
signal and, little by little, crowded round Mr. Golyadkin. He,
however, seemed to hear nothing, to see nothing, he could
not look . . . he could not possibly look at anything; he kept
his eyes on the floor and so stood, giving himself his word of
honour, in passing, to shoot himself one way or another that
night. Making this vow, Mr. Golyadkin inwardly said to
himself, "Here goes!" and to his own great astonishment
began unexpectedly to speak.
He began with congratulations and polite wishes. The
congratulations went off well, but over the good wishes out
hero stammered. He felt that if he stammered all would be
lost at once. And so it turned out - he stammered and
floundered . . . floundering, he blushed crimson; blushing, he
was overcome with confusion. In his confusion he raised his
eyes; raising his eyes he looked about him; looking about
him - he almost swooned . . . Every one stood still, every one
was silent, a little nearer there was laughter. Mr. Golyadkin
fastened a humble, imploring look on Andrey Filippovitch.
Andrey Filippovitch. Andrey Filippovitch responded with
such a look that if our hero had not been utterly crushed
already he certainly would have been crushed a second time
- that is, if that were possible. The silence lasted long.
"This is rather concerned with my domestic circumstances
and my private life, Andrey Filippovitch," our hero,
half-dead, articulated in a scarcely audible voice; "it is not an
official incident, Andrey Filippovitch . . ."
"For shame, sir, for shame!" Andrey Filippovitch
pronounced in a half whisper, with an indescribable air of
indignation; he pronounced these words and, giving Klara
Olsufyevna his arm, he turned away from Mr. Golyadkin.
"I've nothing to be ashamed of, Andrey Filippovitch,"
answered Mr. Golyadkin, also in a whisper, turning his
miserable eyes about him, trying helplessly to discover in the
amazed crowd something on which he could gain a footing
and retrieve his social position.
"Why, it's all right, it's nothing, gentlemen! Why, what's
the matter? Why, it might happen to any one," whispered
Mr. Golyadkin, moving a little away and trying to escape
from the crowd surrounding him.
They made way for him. Our hero passed through two
rows of inquisitive and wondering spectators. Fate drew him
on. He felt himself, that fate was leading him on. He would
have given a great deal, of course, for a chance to be back in
the passage by the back stairs, without having committed a
breach of propriety; but as that was utterly impossible he
began trying to creep away into a corner and to stand there -
modestly, decorously, apart, without interfering with any
one, without attracting especial attention, but at the same
time to win the favourable notice of his host and the
company. At the same time Mr. Golyadkin felt as though the
ground were giving way under him, as though he were
staggering, falling. At last he made his way to a corner and
stood in it, like an unconcerned, rather indifferent spectator,
leaning his arms on the backs of two chairs, taking complete
possession of them in that way, and trying, as far as he could,
to glance confidently at Olsufy Ivanovitch's guests, grouped
about him. Standing nearest him was an officer, a tall and
handsome fellow, beside whom Golyadkin felt himself an
insect.
"These two chairs, lieutenant, are intended, one for Klara
Olsufyevna, and the other for Princess Tchevtchehanov; I'm
taking care of them for them," said Mr. Golyadkin
breathlessly, turning his imploring eyes on the officer. The
lieutenant said nothing, but turned away with a murderous
smile. Checked in this direction, our hero was about to try
his luck in another quarter, and directly addressed an
important councillor with a cross of great distinction on his
breast. But the councillor looked him up and down with such
a frigid stare that Mr. Golyadkin felt distinctly as though a
whole bucketful of cold water had been thrown over him. He
subsided into silence. He made up his mind that it was better
to keep quiet, not to open his lips, and to show that he was
"all right," that he was "like every one else," and that his
position, as far as he could see, was quite a proper one. With
this object he rivetted his gaze on the lining of his coat, ten
raised his eyes and fixed them upon a very
respectable-looking gentleman. "That gentleman has a wig
on," thought Mr. Golyadkin; "and if he takes off that wig he
will be bald, his head will be as bare as the palm of my
hand." Having made this important discovery, Mr.
Golyadkin thought of the Arab Emirs, whose heads are left
bare and shaven if they take off the green turbans they wear
as a sign of their descent from the prophet Mahomet. Then,
probably from some special connection of ideas with the
Turks, he thought of Turkish slippers and at once, apropos of
that, recalled the fact that Andrey Filippovitch was wearing
boots, and that his boots were more like slippers than boots.
It was evident that Mr. Golyadkin had become to some extent
reconciled to his position. "What if that chandelier," flashed
through Mr. Golyadkin's mind, "were to come down from the
ceiling and fall upon the company. I should rush at once to
save Klara Olsufyevna. 'Save her!' I should cry. 'Don't be
alarmed, madam, it's of no consequence, I will rescue you, I.'
Then . . ." At that moment Mr. Golyadkin looked about in
search of Klara Olsufyevna, and saw Gerasimitch, Olsufy
Ivanovitch's old butler. Gerasimitch, with a most anxious
and solemnly official air, was making straight for him. Mr.
Golyadkin started and frowned from an unaccountable but
most disagreeable sensation; he looked about him
mechanically; it occurred to his mind that if only he could
somehow creep off somewhere, unobserved, on the sly -
simply disappear, that it, behave as though he had done
nothing at all, as though the matter did not concern him in the
least! . . . But before hour hero could make up his mind to do
anything, Gerasimitch was standing before him.
"Do you see, Gerasimitch," said our hero, with a little
smile, addressing Gerasimitch; "you go and tell them - do
you see the candle there in the chandelier, Gerasimitch - it
will be falling down directly: so, you know, you must tell
them to see to it; it really will fall down, Gerasimitch. . . ."
"The candle? No, the candle's standing straight; but
somebody is asking for you, sir."
"Who is asking for me, Gerasimitch?"
"I really can't say, sir, who it is. A man with a message.
'Is Yakov Petrovitch Golyadkin here?' says he. 'Then call
him out,' says he, 'on very urgent and important business . .
.' you see."
"No, Gerasimitch, you are making a mistake; in that you
are making a mistake, Gerasimitch."
"I doubt it, sir."
"No, Gerasimitch, it isn't doubtful; there's nothing doubtful
about it, Gerasimitch. Nobody's asking for me, but I'm quite
at home here - that is, in my right place, Gerasimitch."
Mr. Golyadkin took breath and looked about him. Yes!
every one in the room, all had their eyes fixed upon him, and
were listening in a sort of solemn expectation. The men had
crowded a little nearer and were all attention. A little further
away the ladies were whispering together. The master of the
house made his appearance at no great distance from Mr.
Golyadkin, and though it was impossible to detect from his
expression that he, too, was taking a close and direct interest
in Mr. Golyadkin's position, for everything was being done
with delicacy, yet, nevertheless, it all made our hero feel that
the decisive moment had come for him. Mr. Golyadkin saw
clearly that the time had come for a old stroke, the chance of
putting his enemies to shame. Mr. Golyadkin was in great
agitation. He was aware of a sort of inspiration and, in a
quivering and impressive voice, he began again, addressing
the waiting butler -
"No, my dear fellow, no one's calling for me. You are
mistaken. I will say more: you were mistaken this morning
too, when you assured me. . . . dared to assure me, I say (he
raised his voice), "that Olsufy Ivanovitch, who has been my
benefactor for as long as I can remember and has, in a sense,
been a father to me, was shutting his door upon me at the
moment of solemn family rejoicing for his paternal heart."
(Mr. Golyadkin looked about him complacently, but with
deep feeling. A tear glittered on his eyelash.) "I repeat, my
friend," our hero concluded, "you were mistaken, you were
cruelly and unpardonably mistaken. . . ."
The moment was a solemn one. Mr. Golyadkin felt that
the effect was quite certain. He stood with modestly
downcast eyes, expecting Olsufy Ivanovitch to embrace him.
Excitement and perplexity were apparent in the guests, even
the inflexible and terrible Gerasimitch faltered over the
words "I doubt it . . ." when suddenly the ruthless orchestra,
apropos of nothing, struck up a polka. All was lost, all was
scattered to the winds. Mr. Golyadkin started; Gerasimitch
stepped back; everything in the room began undulating like
the sea; and Vladimir Semyonovitch led the dance with Klara
Olsufyevna, while the handsome lieutenant followed with
Princess Tchevtchehanov. Onlookers, curious and delighted,
squeezed in to watch them dancing the polka - an interesting,
fashionable new dance which every one was crazy over. Mr.
Golyadkin was, for the time, forgotten. But suddenly all
were thrown into excitement, confusion and bustle; the music
ceased . . . a strange incident had occurred. Tired out with
the dance, and almost breathless with fatigue, Klara
Olsufyevna, with glowing cheeks and heaving bosom, sank
into an armchair, completely exhausted . . . All hearts turned
to the fascinating creature, all vied with one another in
complimenting her and thanking her for the pleasure
conferred on them, - all at once there stood before her Mr.
Golyadkin. He was pale, extremely perturbed; he, too,
seemed completely exhausted, he could scarcely move. He
was smiling for some reason, he stretched out his hand
imploringly. Klara Olsufyevna was so taken aback that she
had not time to withdraw hers and mechanically got up at his
invitation. Mr. Golyadkin lurched forward, first once, then
a second time, then lifted his leg, then made a scrape, then
gave a sort of stamp, then stumbled . . . he, too, wanted to
dance with Klara Olsufyevna. Klara Olsufyevna uttered a
shriek; every one rushed to release her hand from Mr.
Golyadkin's, and in a moment our hero was carried almost
ten paces away by the rush of the crowd. A circle formed
round him too. Two old ladies, whom he had almost
knocked down in his retreat raised a great shrieking and
outcry. The confusion was awful; all were asking questions,
every one was shouting, every one was finding fault. The
orchestra was silent. Our hero whirled round in his circle
and mechanically, with a semblance of a smile, muttered
something to himself, such as, "Why not?" and "that the
polka, so far, at least, as he could see, was a new and very
interesting dance, invented for the diversion of the ladies. . .
but that since things had taken this turn, he was ready to
consent." But Mr. Golyadkin's consent no one apparently
thought of asking. Our hero was suddenly aware that some
one's hand was laid on his arm, that another hand was
pressed against his back, that he was with peculiar solicitude
being guided in a certain direction. At last he noticed that he
was going straight to the door. Mr. Golyadkin wanted to say
something, to do something. . . . But no, he no longer wanted
to do anything. He only mechanically kept laughing in
answer. At last he was aware that they were putting on his
greatcoat, that his hat was thrust over his eyes; finally he felt
that he was in the entry on the stairs in the dark and cold. At
last he stumbled, he felt that he was falling down a precipice;
he tried to cry out - and suddenly he found himself in the
courtyard. The air blew fresh on him, he stood still for a
minute; at that very instant, the strains reached him of the
orchestra striking up again. Mr. Golyadkin suddenly recalled
it all; it seemed to him that all his flagging energies came
back to him again. He had been standing as though rivetted
to the spot, but now he started off and rushed away headlong,
anywhere, into the air, into freedom, wherever chance might
take him.