CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER INDEX
CHAPTER 8
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 VII
He recovered himself a little on the staircase as he went up to
his flat.
"Oh, I'm a sheep's head," he railed at himself inwardly.
"Where am I taking him? I am thrusting my head into the
noose. What will Petrushka think, seeing us together? What
will the scoundrel dare to imagine now? He's suspicious . .
."
But it was too late to regret it. Mr. Golyadkin knocked at
the door; it was opened, and Petrushka began taking off the
visitor's coat as well as his master's. Mr. Golyadkin looked
askance, just stealing a glance at Petrushka, trying to read his
countenance and divine what he was thinking. But to his
intense astonishment he saw that his servant showed no trace
of surprise, but seemed, on the contrary, to be expected
something of the sort. Of course he did not look morose, as
it was; he kept his eyes turned away and looked as though he
would like to fall upon somebody.
"Hasn't somebody bewitched them all today?" thought our
hero. "Some devil must have got round them. There
certainly must be something peculiar in the whole lot of them
today. Damn it all, what a worry it is!"
Such were Mr. Golyadkin's thoughts and reflections as he
led his visitor into his room and politely asked him to sit
down. The visitor appeared to be greatly embarrassed, he
was very shy, and humbly watched every movement his host
made, caught his glance, and seemed trying to divine his
thoughts from them. There was a downtrodden, crushed,
scared look about all his gestures, so that - if the comparison
may be allowed - he was at that moment rather like the man
who, having lost his clothes, is dressed up in somebody
else's: the sleeves work up to the elbows, the waist is almost
up to his neck, and he keeps every minute pulling down the
short waistcoat; he wriggles sideways and turns away, tries
to hide himself, or peeps into every face, and listens whether
people are talking of his position, laughing at him or putting
him to shame - and he is crimson with shame and
overwhelmed with confusion and wounded vanity. . . . Mr.
Golyadkin put down his hat in the window, and carelessly
sent it flying to the floor. The visitor darted at once to pick
it up, brushed off the dust, and carefully put it back, while he
laid his own on the floor near a chair, on the edge of which
he meekly seated himself. This little circumstance did
something to open Mr. Golyadkin's eyes; he realized that the
man was in great straits, and so did not put himself out for
his visitor as he had done at first, very properly leaving all
that to the man himself. The visitor, for his part, did nothing
either; whether he was shy, a little ashamed, or from
politeness was waiting for his host to begin is not certain and
would be difficult to determine. At that moment Petrushka
came in; he stood still in the doorway, and fixed his eyes in
the direction furthest from where the visitor and his master
were seated.
"Shall I bring in dinner for two?" he said carelessly, in a
husky voice.
"I - I don't know . . . you . . . yes, bring dinner for two, my
boy."
Petrushka went out. Mr. Golyadkin glanced at his visitor.
The latter crimsoned to his ears. Mr. Golyadkin was a
kind-hearted man, and so in the kindness of his heart he at
once elaborated a theory.
"The fellow's hard up," he thought. "Yes, and in his
situation only one day. Most likely he's suffered in his time.
Maybe his good clothes are all that he has, and nothing to get
him a dinner. Ah, poor fellow, how crushed he seems! But
no matter; in a way it's better so. . . . Excuse me," began Mr.
Golyadkin, "allow me to ask what I may call you."
"I . . . I . . . I'm Yakov Petrovitch," his visitor almost
whispered, as though conscience-stricken and ashamed, as
though apologizing for being called Yakov Petrovitch too.
"Yakov Petrovitch!" repeated our visitor, unable to
conceal his confusion.
"Yes, just so. . . . The same name as yours," responded the
meek visitor, venturing to smile and speak a little jocosely.
But at once he drew back, assuming a very serious air,
though a little disconcerted, noticing that his host was in no
joking mood.
"You . . . allow me to ask you, to what am I indebted for
the honour . . .?"
"Knowing your generosity and your benevolence,"
interposed the visitor in a rapid but timid voice, half rising
from his seat, "I have ventured to appeal to you and to beg
for your . . . acquaintance and protection . . ." he concluded,
choosing his phrases with difficulty and trying to select
words not too flattering or servile, that he might not
compromise his dignity and not so bold as to suggest an
unseemly equality. In fact, one may say the visitor behaved
like a gentlemanly beggar with a darned waistcoat, with an
honourable passport in his pocket, who has not yet learnt by
practice to hold out his hand properly for alms.
"You perplex me," answered Mr. Golyadkin, gazing round
at himself, his walls and his visitor. "In what could I . . . that
is, I mean, in what way could I be of service to you?"
"I felt drawn to you, Yakov Petrovitch, at first sight, and,
graciously forgive me, I built my hopes Yakov Petrovitch.
I . . . I'm in a desperate plight here, Yakov Petrovitch; I'm
poor, I've had a great deal of trouble, Yakov Petrovitch, and
have only recently come here. Learning that you, with your
innate goodness and excellence of heart, are of the same
name . . ."
Mr. Golyadkin frowned.
"Of the same name as myself and a native of the same
district, I made up my mind to appeal to you, and to make
known to you my difficult position."
"Very good, very good; I really don't know what to say,"
Mr. Golyadkin responded in an embarrassed voice. "We'll
have a talk after dinner . . ."
The visitor bowed; dinner was brought in. Petrushka laid
the table, and Mr. Golyadkin and his visitor proceeded to
partake of it. The dinner did not last long, for they were both
in a hurry, the host because he felt ill at ease, and was,
besides, ashamed that the dinner was a poor one - he was
partly ashamed because he wanted to give the visitor a good
meal, and partly because he wanted to show him he did not
live like a beggar. The visitor, on his side too, was in terrible
confusion and extremely embarrassed. When he had finished
the piece of bread he had taken, he was afraid to put out his
hand to take another piece, was ashamed to help himself to
the best morsels, and was continually assuring his host that
he was not at all hungry, that the dinner was excellent, that
he was absolutely satisfied with it, and should not forget it to
his dying day. When the meal was over Mr. Golyadkin
lighted his pipe, and offered a second, which was brought in,
to his visitor. They sat facing each other, and the visitor
began telling his adventures.
Mr. Golyadkin junior's story lasted for three or four hours.
His history was, however, composed of the most trivial and
wretched, if one may say so, incidents. It dealt with details
of service in some lawcourt in the provinces, of prosecutors
and presidents, of some department intrigues, of the
depravity of some registration clerks, of an inspector, of the
sudden appointment of a new chief in the department, of how
the second Mr. Golyadkin had suffered quite without any
fault on his part; of his aged aunt, Pelegea Semyonovna; of
how, through various intrigues on the part of his enemies, he
had lost his situation, and had come to Petersburg on foot; of
the harassing and wretched time he had spent here in
Petersburg, how for a long time he had tried in vain to get a
job, had spent all his money, had nothing left, had been
living almost in the street, lived on a crust of bread and
washed it down with his tears, slept on the bare floor, and
finally how some good Christian had exerted himself on his
behalf, had given him an introduction, and had nobly got him
into a new berth. Mr. Golyadkin's visitor shed tears as he
told his story, and wiped his eyes with a blue-check
handkerchief that looked like oilcloth. He ended by making
a clean breast of it to Mr. Golyadkin, and confessing that he
was not only for the time without means of subsistence and
money for a decent lodging, but had not even the
wherewithal to fit himself out properly, so that he had, he
said in conclusion, been able to get together enough for a pair
of wretched boots, and that he had had to hire a uniform for
the time.
Mr. Golyadkin was melted; he was genuinely touched.
Even though his visitor's story was the paltriest story, every
word of it was like heavenly manna to his heart. The fact
was that Mr. Golyadkin was beginning to forget his last
misgivings, to surrender his soul to freedom and rejoicing,
and at last mentally dubbed himself a fool. It was all so
natural! And what a thing to break his heart over, what a
thing to be so distressed about! To be sure there was, there
really was, one ticklish circumstance - but, after all, it was
not a misfortune; it could be no disgrace to a man, it could
not cast a slur on his honour or ruin his career, if he were
innocent, since nature herself was mixed up in it. Moreover,
the visitor begged for protection, wept, railed at destiny,
seemed such an artless, pitiful, insignificant person, with no
craft or malice about him, and he seemed now to be ashamed
himself, though perhaps on different grounds, of the strange
resemblance of his countenance with that of Mr. Golyadkin's.
his behaviour was absolutely unimpeachable; his one desire
was to please his host, and he looked as a man looks who
feels conscience-stricken and to blame in regard to some one
else. If any doubtful point were touched upon, for instance,
the visitor at once agreed with Mr. Golyadkin's opinion. If
by mistake he advanced an opinion in opposition to Mr.
Golyadkin's and afterwards noticed that he had made a slip,
he immediately corrected his mistake, explained himself and
made it clear that he meant the same thing as his host, that he
thought as he did and took the same view of everything as he
did. In fact, the visitor made every possible effort to "make
up to" Mr. Golyadkin, so that the latter made up his mind at
last that his visitor must be a very amiable person in every
way. Meanwhile, tea was brought in; it was nearly nine
o'clock. Mr. Golyadkin felt in a very good-humour, grew
lively and skittish, let himself go a little, and finally plunged
into a most animated and interesting conversation with his
visitor. In his festive moments Mr. Golyadkin was fond of
telling interesting anecdotes. So now he told the visitor a
great deal about Petersburg, about its entertainments and
attractions, about the theatre, the clubs, about Brulov's
picture, and about the two Englishmen who came from
England to Petersburg on purpose to look at the iron railing
of the Summer Garden, and returned at once when they had
seen it; about the office; about Olsufy Ivanovitch and Andrey
Filippovitch; about the way that Russia was progressing, was
hour by hour progressing towards a state of perfection, so
that
"Arts and letters flourish here today";
about an anecdote he had lately read in the Northern Bee
concerning a boa-constrictor in India of immense strength;
about Baron Brambeus, and so on. In short, Mr. Golyadkin
was quite happy, first, because his mind was at rest,
secondly, because, so far from being afraid of his enemies, he
was quite prepared now to challenge them all to mortal
combat; thirdly, because he was now in the role of patron and
was doing a good deed. Yet he was conscious at the bottom
of his heart that he was not perfectly happy, that there was
still a hidden worm gnawing at his heart, though it was only
a tiny one. He was extremely worried by the thought of the
previous evening at Olsufy Ivanovitch's. He would have
given a great deal now for nothing to have happened of what
took place then.
"It's no matter, though!" our hero decided at last, and he
firmly resolved in his heart to behave well in future and
never to be guilty of such pranks again. As Mr. Golyadkin
was now completely worked up, and had suddenly become
almost blissful, the fancy took him to have a jovial time.
Rum was brought in by Petrushka, and punch was prepared.
The visitor and his host drained a glass each, and then a
second. The visitor appeared even more amiable than before,
and gave more than one proof of his frankness and charming
character; he entered keenly into Mr. Golyadkin's joy,
seemed only to rejoice in his rejoicing, and to look upon him
as his one and only benefactor. Taking up a pen and a sheet
of paper, he asked Golyadkin not to look at what he was
going to write, but afterwards showed his host what he had
written. It turned out to be a verse of four lines, written with
a good deal of feeling, in excellent language and
handwriting, and evidently was the composition of the
amiable visitor himself. the lines were as follows -
"If thou forget me,
I shall not forget thee;
Though all things may be,
Do not thou forget me."
With tears in his eyes Mr. Golyadkin embraced his
companion, and, completely overcome by his feelings, he
began to initiate his friend into some of his own secrets and
private affairs, Andrey Filippovitch and Klara Olsufyevna
being prominent in his remarks.
"Well, you may be sure we shall get on together, Yakov
Petrovitch," said our hero to his visitor. "You and I will take
to each other like fish to the water, Yakov Petrovitch; we
shall be like brothers; we'll be cunning, my dear fellow, we'll
work together; we'll get up an intrigue, too, to pay them out.
To pay them out we'll get up an intrigue too. And don't you
trust any of them. I know you, Yakov Petrovitch, and I
understand your character; you'll tell them everything straight
out, you know, you're a guileless soul! You must hold aloof
from them all, my boy."
His companion entirely agreed with him, thanked Mr.
Golyadkin, and he, too, grew tearful at last.
"Do you know, Yasha," Mr. Golyadkin went on in a
shaking voice, weak with emotion, "you must stay with me
for a time, or stay with me for ever. We shall get on
together. What do you say, brother, eh? And don't you
worry or repine because there's such a strange circumstance
about us now; it's a sin to repine, brother; it's nature! And
Mother Nature is liberal with her gifts, so there, brother
Yasha! It's from love for you that I speak, from brotherly
love. But we'll be cunning, Yasha; we'll lay a mine, too, and
we'll make them laugh the other side of their mouths."
They reached their third and fourth glasses of punch at
last, and then Mr. Golyadkin began to be aware of two
sensations: the one that he was extraordinarily happy, and the
other that he could not stand on his legs. The guest was, of
course, invited to stay the night. A bed was somehow made
up on two chairs. Mr. Golyadkin junior declared that under
a friend's roof the bare floor would be a soft bed, that for his
part he could sleep anywhere, humbly and gratefully; that he
was in paradise now, that he had been through a great deal of
trouble and grief in his time; he had seen ups and downs, had
all sorts of things to put up with, and - who could tell what
the future would be? - maybe he would have still more to put
up with. Mr. Golyadkin senior protested against this, and
began to maintain that one must put one's faith in God. His
guest entirely agreed, observing that there was, of course, no
one like God. At this point Mr. Golyadkin senior observed
that in certain respects the Turks were right in calling upon
God even in their sleep. Then, though disagreeing with
certain learned professors in the slanders thy had
promulgated against the Turkish prophet Mahomet and
recognizing him as a great politician in his own line, Mr.
Golyadkin passed to a very interesting description of an
Algerian barber's shop which he had read in a book of
miscellanies. The friends laughed heartily at the simplicity
of the Turks, but paid dur tribute to their fanaticism, which
they ascribed to opium. . . . At last the guest began
undressing, and thinking in the kindness of his heart that very
likely he hadn't even a decent shirt, Mr. Golyadkin went
behind the screen to avoid embarrassing a man who had
suffered enough, and partly to reassure himself as far as
possible about Petrushka, to sound him, to cheer him up if he
could, to be kind to the fellow so that every one might be
happy and that everything might be pleasant all round. It
must be remarked that Petrushka still rather bothered Mr.
Golyadkin.
"You go to bed now, Pyotr," Mr. Golyadkin said blandly,
going into his servant's domain; "you go to bed now and
wake me up and eight o'clock. Do you understand
Petrushka?"
Mr. Golyadkin spoke with exceptional softness and
friendliness. But Petrushka remained mute. He was busy
making his bed, and did not even turn round to face his
master, which he ought to have done out of simple respect.
"Did you hear what I said, Pyotr?" Mr. Golyadkin went on.
"You go to bed now and wake me tomorrow at eight o'clock;
do you understand?"
"Why, I know that; what's the use of telling me?"
Petrushka grumbled to himself.
"Well, that's right, Petrushka; I only mention it that you
might be happy and at rest. Now we are all happy, so I want
you, too, to be happy and satisfied. And now I wish you
good-night. Sleep, Petrushka, sleep; we all have to work . .
. Don't think anything amiss, my man . . ." Mr. Golyadkin
began, but stopped short. "Isn't this too much?" he thought.
"Haven't I gone too far? That's how it always is; I always
overdo things."
Our hero felt much dissatisfied with himself as he left
Petrushka. He was, besides, rather wounded by Petrushka's
grumpiness and rudeness. "One jests with the rascal, his
master does him too much honour, and the rascal does not
feel it," thought Mr. Golyadkin. "But there, that's the nasty
way of all that sort of people!"
Somewhat shaken, he went back to his room, and, seeing
that his guest had settled himself for the night, he sat down
on the edge of his bed for a minute.
"Come, you must own, Yasha," he began in a whisper,
wagging his head, "you're a rascal, you know; what a way
you've treated me! You see, you've got my name, do you
know that?" he went on, jesting in a rather familiar way with
his visitor. At last, saying a friendly good-night to him, Mr.
Golyadkin began preparing for the night. The visitor
meanwhile began snoring. Mr. Golyadkin in his turn got into
bed, laughing and whispering to himself: "You are drunk
today, my dear fellow, Yakov Petrovitch, you rascal, you old
Golyadkin - what a surname to have! Why, what are you so
pleased about? You'll be crying tomorrow, you know, you
sniveller; what am I to do with you?"
At this point a rather strange sensation pervaded Mr.
Golyadkin's whole being, something like doubt or remorse.
"I've been over-excited and let myself go," he thought;
"now I've a noise in my head and I'm drunk; I couldn't
restrain myself, ass that I am! and I've been babbling bushels
of nonsense, and, like a rascal, I was planning to be so sly.
Of course, to forgive and forget injuries is the height of
virtue; but it's a bad thing, nevertheless! Yes, that is so!"
At this point Mr. Golyadkin got up, took a candle and
went on tiptoe to look once more at his sleeping guest. He
stood over him for a long time meditating deeply.
"An unpleasant picture! A burlesque, a regular burlesque,
and that's the fact of the matter!"
At last Mr. Golyadkin settled down finally. There was a
humming, a buzzing, a ringing in his head. He grew more
and more drowsy . . . tried to think about something very
important, some delicate question - but could not. Sleep
descended upon his devoted head, and he slept as people
generally do sleep who are not used to drinking and have
consumed five glasses of punch at some festive gathering.