CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER INDEX
CHAPTER 6
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 V
It was striking midnight from all the clock towers in
Petersburg when Mr. Golyadkin, beside himself, ran out on
the Fontanka Quay, close to the Ismailovsky Bridge, fleeing
from his foes, from persecution, from a hailstorm of nips and
pinches aimed at him, from the shrieks of excited old ladies,
from the Ohs and Ahs of women and from the murderous
eyes of Andrey Filippovitch. Mr. Golyadkin was killed -
killed entirely, in the full sense of the word, and if he still
preserved the power of running, it was simply through some
sort of miracle, a miracle in which at last he refused himself
to believe. It was an awful November night - wet, foggy,
rainy, snowy, teeming with colds in the head, fevers, swollen
faces, quinseys, inflammations of all kinds and descriptions
- teeming, in fact, with all the gifts of a Petersburg
November. The wind howled in the deserted streets, lifting
up the black water of the canal above the rings on the bank,
and irritably brushing against the lean lamp-posts which
chimed in with its howling in a thin, shrill creak, keeping up
the endless squeaky, jangling concert with which every
inhabitant of Petersburg is so familiar. Snow and rain were
falling both at once. Lashed by the wind, the streams of
rainwater spurted almost horizontally, as though from a
fireman's hose, pricking and stinging the face of the luckless
Mr. Golyadkin like a thousand pins and needles. In the
stillness of the night, broken only by the distant rumbling of
carriages, the howl of the wind and the creaking of the
lamp-posts, there was the dismal sound of the splash and
gurgle of water, rushing from every roof, every porch, every
pipe and every cornice, on to the granite of the pavement.
There was not a soul, near or far, and, indeed, it seemed there
could not be at such an hour and in such weather. And so
only Mr. Golyadkin, alone with his despair, was fleeing in
terror along the pavement of Fontanka, with his usual rapid
little step, in haste to get home as soon as possible to his flat
on the fourth storey in Shestilavotchny Street.
Though the snow, the rain, and all the nameless horrors of
a raging snowstorm and fog, under a Petersburg November
sky, were attacking Mr. Golyadkin, already shattered by
misfortunes, were showing him no mercy, giving him no rest,
drenching him to the bone, glueing up his eyelids, blowing
right through him from all sides, baffling and perplexing him
- though conspiring and combining with all his enemies to
make a grand day, evening, and night for him, in spite of all
this Mr. Golyadkin was almost insensible to this final proof
of the persecution of destiny: so violent had been the shock
and the impression made upon him a few minutes before at
the civil councillor Berendyev's! If any disinterested
spectator could have glanced casually at Mr. Golyadkin's
painful progress, he would certainly have said that Mr.
Golyadkin looked as though he wanted to hide from himself,
as though he were trying to run away from himself! Yes! It
was really so. One may say more: Mr. Golyadkin did not
want only to run away from himself, but to be obliterated, to
cease to be, to return to dust. At the moment he took in
nothing surrounding him, understood nothing of what was
going on about him, and looked as though the miseries of the
stormy night, of the long tramp, the rain, the snow, the wind,
all the cruelty of the weather, did not exist for him. The
golosh slipping off the boot on Mr. Golyadkin's right foot
was left behind in the snow and slush on the pavement of
Fontanka, and Mr. Golyadkin did not think of turning back
to get it, did not, in fact, notice that he had lost it. He was so
perplexed that, in spite of everything surrounding him, he
stood several times stock still in the middle of the pavement,
completely possessed by the thought of his recent horrible
humiliation; at that instant he was dying, disappearing; then
he suddenly set off again like mad and ran and ran without
looking back, as though he were pursued, as though he were
fleeing from some still more awful calamity. . . . The position
was truly awful! . . . At last Mr. Golyadkin halted in
exhaustion, leaned on the railing in the attitude of a man
whose nose has suddenly begun to bleed, and began looking
intently at the black and troubled waters of the canal. All
that is known is that at that instant Mr. Golyadkin reached
such a pitch of despair, was so harassed, so tortured, so
exhausted, and so weakened in what feeble faculties were left
him that he forgot everything, forgot the Ismailovsky Bridge,
forgot Shestilavotchny Street, forgot his present plight . . .
After all, what did it matter to him? The thing was done.
The decision was affirmed and ratified; what could he do?
All at once . . . all at once he started and involuntarily
skipped a couple of paces aside. With unaccountable
uneasiness he bean gazing about him; but no one was there,
nothing special had happened, and yet . . . and yet he fancied
that just now, that very minute, some one was standing near
him, beside him, also leaning on the railing, and - marvellous
to relate! - had even said something to him, said something
quickly, abruptly, not quite intelligibly, but something quite
private, something concerning himself.
"Why, was it my fancy?" said Mr. Golyadkin, looking
round once more. "But where am I standing? . . . Ech, ech,"
he thought finally, shaking his head, though he began gazing
with an uneasy, miserable feeling into the damp, murky
distance, straining his sight and doing his utmost to pierce
with his short-sighted eyes the wet darkness that stretched
all round him. There was nothing new, however, nothing
special caught the eye of Mr. Golyadkin. Everything seemed
to be all right, as it should be, that is, the snow was falling
more violently, more thickly and in larger flakes, nothing
could be seen twenty paces away, the lamp-posts creaked
more shrilly than ever and the wind seemed to intone its
melancholy song even more tearfully, more piteously, like an
importunate beggar whining for a copper to get a crust of
bread. At the same time a new sensation took possession of
Mr. Golyadkin's whole being: agony upon agony, terror upon
terror . . . a feverish tremor ran through his veins. The
moment was insufferably unpleasant! "Well, no matter;
perhaps it's no matter at all, and there's no stain on any one's
honour. Perhaps it's as it should be," he went on, without
understanding what he was saying. "Perhaps it will al be for
the best in the end, and there will be nothing to complain of,
and every one will be justified."
Talking like this and comforting himself with words, Mr.
Golyadkin shook himself a little, shook off the snow which
had drifted in thick layers on his hat, his collar, his overcoat,
his tie, his boots and everything - but his strange feeling, his
strange obscure misery he could not get rid of, could not
shake off. Somewhere in the distance there was the boom of
a cannon shot. "Ach, what weather!" thought our hero.
"Tchoo! isn't there going to be a flood? It seems as though
the water has risen so violently."
Mr. Golyadkin had hardly said or thought this when he
saw a person coming towards him, belated, no doubt, like
him, through some accident. An unimportant, casual
incident, one might suppose, but for some unknown reason
Mr. Golyadkin was troubled, even scared, and rather flurried.
It was not that he was exactly afraid of some ill-intentioned
man, but just that "perhaps . . . after all, who knows, this
belated individual," flashed through Mr. Golyadkin's mind,
"maybe he's that very thing, maybe he's the very principal
thing in it, and isn't here for nothing, but is here with an
object, crossing my path and provoking me." Possibly,
however, he did not think this precisely, but only had a
passing feeling of something like it - and very unpleasant.
There was no time, however, for thinking and feeling. The
stranger was already within two paces. Mr. Golyadkin, as he
invariably did, hastened to assume a quite peculiar air, an air
that expressed clearly that he, Golyadkin, kept himself to
himself, that he was "all right," that the road was wide
enough for all, and that he, Golyadkin, was not interfering
with any one. Suddenly he stopped short as though petrified,
as though struck by lightning, and quickly turned round after
the figure which had only just passed him - turned as though
some one had given him a tug from behind, as though the
wind had turned him like a weathercock. The passer-by
vanished quickly in the snowstorm. He, too, walked quickly;
he was dressed like Mr. Golyadkin and, like him, too,
wrapped up from head to foot, and he, too, tripped and
trotted along the pavement of Fontanka with rapid little steps
that suggested that he was a little scared.
"What - what is it?" whispered Mr. Golyadkin, smiling
mistrustfully, though he trembled all over. An icy shiver ran
down his back. Meanwhile, the stranger had vanished
completely; there was no sound of his step, while Mr.
Golyadkin still stood and gazed after him. At last, however,
he gradually came to himself.
"Why, what's the meaning of it?" he thought with
vexation. "Why, have I really gone out of my mind, or
what?" He turned and went on his way, making his footsteps
more rapid and frequent, and doing his best not to think of
anything at all. He even closed his eyes at last with the same
object. Suddenly, through the howling of the wind and the
uproar of the storm, the sound of steps very close at hand
reached his ears again. He started and opened his eyes.
Again a rapidly approaching figure stood out black before
him, some twenty paces away. This little figure was
hastening, tripping along, hurrying nervously; the distance
between them grew rapidly less. Mr. Golyadkin could by
now get a full view of the second belated companion. He
looked full at him and cried out with amazement and horror;
his legs gave way under him. It was the same individual who
had passed him ten minutes before, and who now quite
unexpectedly turned up facing him again. But this was not
the only marvel that struck Mr. Golyadkin. He was so
amazed that he stood still, cried out, tried to say something,
and rushed to overtake the stranger, even shouted something
to him, probably anxious to stop him as quickly as possible.
The stranger did, in fact, stop ten paces from Mr. Golyadkin,
so that the light from the lamp-post that stood near fell full
upon his whole figure - stood still, turned to Mr. Golyadkin,
and with impatient and anxious face waited to hear what he
would say.
"Excuse me, possibly I'm mistaken," our hero brought out
in a quavering voice.
The stranger in silence, and with an air of annoyance,
turned and rapidly went on his way, as though in haste to
make up for the two seconds he had wasted on Mr.
Golyadkin. As for the latter, he was quivering in every
nerve, his knees shook and gave way under him, and with a
moan he squatted on a stone at the edge of the pavement.
There really was reason, however, for his being so
overwhelmed. The fact is that this stranger seemed to him
somehow familiar. That would have been nothing, though.
But he recognised, almost certainly recognised this man. He
had often seen him, that man, had seen him some time, and
very lately too; where could it have been? Surely not
yesterday? But, again, that was not the chief thing that Mr.
Golyadkin had often seen him before; there was hardly
anything special about the man; the man at first sight would
not have aroused any special attention. He was just a man
like any one else, a gentleman like all other gentlemen, of
course, and perhaps he had some good qualities and very
valuable one too - in fact, he was a man who was quite
himself. Mr. Golyadkin cherished no sort of hatred or
enmity, not even the slightest hostility towards this man -
quite the contrary, it would seem, indeed - and yet (and this
was the real point) he would not for any treasure on earth
have been willing to meet that man, and especially to meet
him as he had done now, for instance. We may say more:
Mr. Golyadkin knew that man perfectly well: he even knew
what he was called, what his name was; and yet nothing
would have induced him, and again, for no treasure on earth
would he have consented to name him, to consent to
acknowledge that he was called so-and-so, that his father's
name was this and his surname was that. Whether Mr.
Golyadkin's stupefaction lasted a short time or a long time,
whether he was sitting for a long time on the stone of the
pavement I cannot say; but, recovering himself a little at last,
he suddenly fall to running, without looking round, as fast as
his legs could carry him; his mind was preoccupied, twice he
stumbled and almost fell - and through this circumstance his
other boot was also bereaved of its golosh. At last Mr.
Golyadkin slackened his pace a little to get breath, looked
hurriedly round and saw that he had already, without being
aware of it, run passed part of the Nevsky Prospect and was
now standing at the turning into Liteyny Street. Mr.
Golyadkin turned into Liteyny Street. His position at that
instant was like that of a man standing at the edge of a fearful
precipice, while the earth is bursting open under him, is
already shaking, moving, rocking for the last time, falling,
drawing him into the abyss, and yet, the luckless wretch has
not the strength, nor the resolution, to leap back, to avert his
eyes from the yawning gulf below; the abyss draws him and
at last he leaps into it of himself, himself hastening the
moment of destruction. Mr. Golyadkin knew, felt and was
firmly convinced that some other evil would certainly befall
him on the way, that some unpleasantness would overtake
him, that he would, for instance, meet his stranger once
more: but - strange to say, he positively desired this meeting,
considered it inevitable, and all he asked was that it might all
be quickly over, that he should be relieved from his position
in one way or another, but as soon as possible. And
meanwhile he ran on and on, as though moved by some
external force, for he felt a weakness and numbness in his
whole being: he could not think of anything, though his
thoughts caught at everything like brambles. A little lost
dog, soaked and shivering, attached itself to Mr. Golyadkin,
and ran beside him, scurrying along with tail and ears
drooping, looking at him from time to time with timid
comprehension. Some remote, long-forgotten idea - some
memory of something that had happened long ago - came
back into his mind now, kept knocking at his brain as with a
hammer, vexing him and refusing to be shaken off.
"Ech, that horrid little cur!" whispered Mr. Golyadkin, not
understanding himself.
At last he saw his stranger at the turning into Italyansky
Street. But this time the stranger was not coming to meet
him, but was running in the same direction as he was, and he,
too, was running, a few steps in front. At last they turned
into Shestilavotchny Street.
Mr. Golyadkin caught his breath. The stranger stopped
exactly before the house in which Mr. Golyadkin lodged. He
heard a ring at the bell and almost at the same time the
grating of the iron bolt. The gate opened, the stranger
stooped, darted in and disappeared. Almost at the same
instant Mr. Golyadkin reached the spot and like an arrow
flew in at the gate. Heedless of the grumbling porter, he ran,
gasping for breath, into the yard, and immediately saw his
interesting companion, whom he had lost sight of for a
moment.
The stranger darted towards the staircase which led to Mr.
Golyadkin's flat. Mr. Golyadkin rushed after him. The stairs
were dark, damp and dirt. At every turning there were
heaped-up masses of refuse from the flats, so that any
unaccustomed stranger who found himself on the stairs in the
dark was forced to travel to and fro for half an hour in danger
of breaking his legs, cursing the stairs as well as the friends
who lived in such an inconvenient place. But Mr.
Golyadkin's companion seemed as though familiar with it, as
though at home; he ran up lightly, without difficulty,
showing a perfect knowledge of his surroundings. Mr.
Golyadkin had almost caught him up; in fact, once or twice
the stranger's coat flicked him on the nose. His heart stood
still. The stranger stopped before the door of Mr.
Golyadkin's flat, knocked on it, and (which would, however,
have surprised Mr. Golyadkin at any other time) Petrushka,
as though he had been sitting up in expectation, opened the
door at once and, with a candle in his hand, followed the
strange as the latter went in. The hero of our story dashed
into his lodging beside himself; without taking off his hat or
coat he crossed the little passage and stood still in the
doorway of his room, as though thunderstruck. All his
presentiments had come true. All that he had dreaded and
surmised was coming to pass in reality. His breath failed
him, his head was in a whirl. The stranger, also in his coat
and hat, was sitting before him on his bed, and with a faint
smile, screwing up his eyes, nodded to him in a friendly way.
Mr. Golyadkin wanted to scream, but could not - to protest
in some way, but his strength failed him. His hair stood on
end, and he almost fell down with horror. And, indeed, there
was good reason. He recognised his nocturnal visitor. The
nocturnal visitor was no other than himself - Mr. Golyadkin
himself, another Mr. Golyadkin, but absolutely the same as
himself - in fact, what is called a double in every respect. . .