CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER INDEX
CHAPTER 10
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 IX
Everything, apparently, and even nature itself, seemed up in
arms against Mr. Golyadkin; but he was still on his legs and
unconquered; he felt that he was unconquered. He was ready
to struggle. he rubbed his hands with such feeling and such
energy when he recovered from his first amazement that it
could be deduced from his very air that he would not give in.
yet the danger was imminent; it was evident; Mr. Golyadkin
felt it; but how to grapple with it, with this danger? - that was
the question. the thought even flashed through Mr.
Golyadkin's mind for a moment, "After all, why not leave it
so, simply give up? Why, what is it? Why, it's nothing. I'll
keep apart as though it were not I," thought Mr. Golyadkin.
"I'll let it all pass; it's not I, and that's all about it; he's
separate too, maybe he'll give it up too; he'll hang about, the
rascal, he'll hang about. He'll come back and give it up
again. Than's how it will be! I'll take it meekly. And,
indeed, where is the danger? Come, what danger is there?
I should like any one to tell me where the danger lies in this
business. It is a trivial affair. An everyday affair. . . ."
At this point Mr. Golyadkin's tongue failed; the words died
away on his lips; he even swore at himself for this thought;
he convicted himself on the spot of abjectness, of cowardice
for having this thought; things were no forwarder, however.
He felt that to make up his mind to some course of action
was absolutely necessary for him at the moment; he even felt
that he would have given a great deal to any one who could
have told him what he must decide to do. Yes, but how
could he guess what? Though, indeed, he had no time to
guess. In any case, that he might lose no time he took a cab
and dashed home.
"Well? What are you feeling now?" he wondered; "what
are you graciously pleased to be thinking of, Yakov
Petrovitch? What are you doing? What are you doing now,
you rogue, you rascal? You've brought yourself to this
plight, and now you are weeping and whimpering!"
So Mr. Golyadkin taunted himself as he jolted along in the
vehicle. To taunt himself and so to irritate his wounds was,
at this time, a great satisfaction to Mr. Golyadkin, almost a
voluptuous enjoyment.
"Well," he thought, "if some magician were to turn up
now, or if it could come to pass in some official way and I
were told: 'Give a finger of your right hand, Golyadkin - and
it's a bargain with you; there shall not be the other
Golyadkin, and you will be happy, only you won't have your
finger' - yes, I would sacrifice my finger, I would certainly
sacrifice it, I would sacrifice it without winking. . . . The
devil take it all!" the despairing titular councillor cried at last.
"Why, what is it all for? Well, it all had to be; yes, it
absolutely had to; yes, just this had to be, as though nothing
else were possible! And it was all right at first. Every one
was pleased and happy. But there, it had to be! There's
nothing to be gained by talking, though; you must act."
And so, almost resolved upon some action, Mr. Golyadkin
reached home, and without a moment's delay snatched up his
pipe and, sucking at it with all his might and puffing out
clouds of smoke to right and to left, he began pacing up and
down the room in a state of violent excitement. Meanwhile,
Petrushka began laying the table. At last Mr. Golyadkin
made up his mind completely, flung aside his pipe, put on his
overcoat, said he would not dine at home and ran out of the
flat. Petrushka, panting, overtook him on the stairs, bringing
the hat he had forgotten. Mr. Golyadkin took his hat, wanted
to say something incidentally to justify himself in Petrushka's
eyes that the latter might not think anything particular, such
as, "What a queer circumstance! here he forgot his hat - and
so on," but as Petrushka walked away at once and would not
even look at him, Mr. Golyadkin put on his hat without
further explanation, ran downstairs, and repeating to himself
that perhaps everything might be for the best, and that affairs
would somehow be arranged, though he was conscious
among other things of a cold chill right down to his heels, he
went out into the street, took a cab and hastened to Andrey
Filippovitch's.
"Would it not be better tomorrow, though?" thought Mr.
Golyadkin, as he took hold of the bell-rope of Andrey
Filippovitch's flat. "And, besides, what can I say in
particular? There is nothing particular in it. It's such a
wretched affair, yes, it really is wretched, paltry, yes, that is,
almost a paltry affair . . . yes, that's what it is, the incident .
. . Suddenly Mr. Golyadkin pulled at the bell; the bell rang;
footsteps were heard within . . . Mr. Golyadkin cursed
himself on the spot for his hastiness and audacity. His recent
unpleasant experiences, which he had almost forgotten over
his work, and his encounter with Andrey Filippovitch
immediately cam back into his mind. But by now it was too
late to run away: the door opened. Luckily for Mr.
Golyadkin he was informed that Andrey Filippovitch had not
returned from the office and had not dined at home.
"I know where he dines: he dines near the Ismailovsky
Bridge," thought our hero; and he was immensely relieved.
To the footman's inquiry what message he would leave, he
said: "It's all right, my good man, I'll look in later," and he
even ran downstairs with a certain cheerful briskness. Going
out into the street, he decided to dismiss the cab and paid the
driver. When the man asked for something extra, saying he
had been waiting in the street and had not spared his horse
for his honour, he gave him five kopecks extra, and even
willingly; and then walked on.
"It really is such a thing," thought Mr. Golyadkin, "that it
cannot be left like that; though, if one looks at it that way,
looks at it sensibly, why am I hurrying about here, in reality?
Well, yes, though, I will go on discussing why I should take
a lot of trouble; why I should rush about, exert myself, worry
myself and wear myself out. To begin with, the thing's done
and there's no recalling it . . . of course, there's no recalling
it! Let us put it like this: a man turns up with a satisfactory
reference, said to be a capable clerk, of good conduct, only
he is a poor man and has suffered many reverses - all sorts of
ups and downs - well, poverty is not a crime: so I must stand
aside. Why, what nonsense it is! Well, he came; he is so
made, the man is so made by nature itself that he is as like
another man as though they were two drops of water, as
though he were a perfect copy of another man; how could
they refuse to take him into the department on that account?
If it is fate, if it is only fate, if it only blind chance that is to
blame - is he to be treated like a rag, is he to be refused a job
in the office? . . . Why, what would become of justice after
that? He is a poor man, hopeless, downcast; it makes one's
heart ache: compassion bids one care for him! Yes! There's
no denying, there would be a fine set of head officials, if they
took the same view as a reprobate like me! What an
addlepate I am! I have foolishness enough for a dozen! Yes,
yes! They did right, and many thanks to them for being good
to a poor, luckless fellow . . . Why, let us imagine for a
moment that we are twins, that we had been born twin
brothers, and nothing else - there it is! Well, what of it?
Why, nothing! All the clerks can get used to it . . . And an
outsider, coming into our office, would certainly find nothing
unseemly or offensive in the circumstance. In fact, there is
really something touching it; to think that the divine
Providence created two men exactly alike, and the heads of
the department, seeing the divine handiwork, provided for
two twins. It would, of course," Mr. Golyadkin went on,
drawing a breath and dropping his voice, "it would, of course
. . . it would, of course, have been better if there had been .
. . if there had been nothing of this touching kindness, and if
there had been no twins either . . . The devil take it all! And
what need was there for it? And what was the particular
necessity that admitted of no delay! My goodness! The
devil has made a mess of it! Besides, he has such a
character, too, he's of such a playful, horrid disposition - he's
such a scoundrel, he's such a nimble fellow! He's such a
toady! Such a lickspittle! He's such a Golyadkin! I daresay
he will misconduct himself; yes, he'll disgrace my name, the
blackguard! And now I have to look after hm and wait upon
him! What an infliction! But, after all, what of it? It doesn't
matter. Granted, he's a scoundrel, well, let him be a
scoundrel, but to make up for it, the other one's honest; so he
will be a scoundrel and I'll be honest, and they'll say that this
Golyadkin's a rascal, don't take any notice of him, and don't
mix him up with the other; but the other one's honest,
virtuous, mild, free from malice, always to be relied upon in
the service, and worthy of promotion; that's how it is, very
good . . . but what if . . . what if they get us mixed up! . . . He
is equal to anything! Ah, Lord, have mercy upon us! . . . He
will counterfeit a man, he will counterfeit him, the rascal - he
will change one man for another as though he were a rag, and
not reflect that a man is not a rag. Ach, mercy on us! Ough,
what a calamity!" . . .
Reflecting and lamenting in this way, Mr. Golyadkin ran
on, regardless of where he was going. He came to his senses
in Nevsky Prospect, only owing to the chance that he ran so
neatly full-tilt into a passer-by that he saw stars in his eyes.
Mr. Golyadkin muttered his excuses without raising his head,
and it was only after the passer-by, muttering something far
from flattering, had walked a considerable distance away,
that he raised his nose and looked about to see where he was
and how he had got there. Noticing when he did so that he
was close to the restaurant in which he had sat for a while
before the dinner-part at Olsufy Ivanovitch's, our hero was
suddenly conscious of a pinching and nipping sensation in
his stomach; he remembered that he had not dined; he had no
prospect of a dinner-party anywhere. And so, without losing
precious time, he ran upstairs into the restaurant to have a
snack of something as quickly as possible, and to avoid delay
by making all the haste he could. And though everything in
the restaurant was rather dear, that little circumstance did not
on this occasion make Mr. Golyadkin pause, and, indeed, he
had no time to pause over such a trifle. In the brightly
lighted room the customers were standing in rather a crowd
round the counter, upon which lay heaps of all sorts of such
edibles as are eaten by well-bred person's at lunch. The
waiter scarcely had time to fill glasses, to serve, to take
money and give change. Mr. Golyadkin waited for his turn
and modestly stretched out his had for a savoury patty.
Retreating into a corner, turning his back on the company
and eating with appetite, he went back to the attendant, put
down his plate and, knowing the price, took out a ten-kopeck
piece and laid the coin on the counter, catching the waiter's
eye as though to say, "Look, here's the money, one pie," and
so on.
"One rouble ten kopecks is your bill," the waiter filtered
through his teeth.
Mr. Golyadkin was a good deal surprised.
"You are speaking to me? . . . I . . . I took one pie, I
believe."
"You've had eleven," the man said confidently.
"You . . . so it seems to me . . . I believe, you're mistaken
. . . I really took only one pie, I think."
"I counted them; you took eleven. Since you've had them
you must pay for them; we don't give anything away for
nothing."
Mr. Golyadkin was petrified. "What sorcery is this, what
is happening to me?" he wondered. Meanwhile, the man
waited for Mr. Golyadkin to make up his mind; people
crowded round Mr. Golyadkin; he was already feeling in his
pocket for a silver rouble, to pay the full amount at once, to
avoid further trouble. "Well, if it was eleven, it was eleven,"
he thought, turning as red as a lobster. "Why, a man's
hungry, so he eats eleven pies; well, let him eat, and may it
do him good; and there's nothing to wonder at in that, and
there's nothing to laugh at . . . "
At that moment something seemed to stab Mr. Golyadkin.
He raised his eyes and - at once he guessed he riddle. He
knew what the sorcery was. All his difficulties were solved
. . .
In the doorway of the next room, almost directly behind
the waiter and facing Mr. Golyadkin, in the doorway which,
till that moment, our hero had taken for a looking-glass, a
man was standing - he was standing, Mr. Golyadkin was
standing - not the original Mr. Golyadkin, the hero of our
story, but the other Mr. Golyadkin, the new Mr. Golyadkin.
The second Mr. Golyadkin was apparently in excellent
spirits. He smiled to Mr. Golyadkin the first, nodded to him,
winked, shuffled his feet a little, and looked as though in
another minute he would vanish, would disappear into the
next room, and then go out, maybe, by a back way out; and
there it would be, and all pursuit would be in vain. In his
hand he had the last morsel of the tenth pie, and before Mr.
Golyadkin's very eyes he popped it into his mouth and
smacked his lips.
"He had impersonated me, the scoundrel!" thought Mr.
Golyadkin, flushing hot with shame. "He is not ashamed of
the publicity of it! Do they see him? I fancy no one notices
him . . . "
Mr. Golyadkin threw down his rouble as though it burnt
his fingers, and without noticing the waiter's insolently
significant grin, a smile of triumph and serene power, he
extricated himself from the crowd, and rushed away without
looking round. "We must be thankful that at least he has not
completely compromised anyone!" thought Mr. Golyadkin
senior. "We must be thankful to him, the brigand, and to
fate, that everything was satisfactorily settled. The waiter
was rude, that was all. But, after all, he was in the right.
One rouble and ten kopecks were owing: so he was in the
right. 'We don't give things away for nothing,' he said!
Though he might have been more polite, the rascal . . ."
All this Mr. Golyadkin said to himself as he went
downstairs to the entrance, but on the last step he stopped
suddenly, as though he had been shot, and suddenly flushed
till the tears came into his eyes at the insult to his dignity.
After standing stockstill for half a minute, he stamped his
foot, resolutely, at one bound leapt from the step into the
street and, without looking round, rushed breathless and
unconscious of fatigue back home, without changing his
coat, though it was his habit to change into an old coat at
home, without even stopping to take his pipe, he sat down on
the sofa, drew the inkstand towards him, took up a pen, got
a sheet of notepaper, and with a hand that trembled from
inward excitement, began scribbling the following epistle,
"Dear Sir Yakov Petrovitch!
"I should not take up my pen if my circumstances, and
your own action, sir, had not compelled me to that step.
Believe me that nothing but necessity would have induced
me to enter upon such a discussion with you and therefore,
first of all, I beg you, sir, to look upon this step of mine not
as a premeditated design to insult you, but as the inevitable
consequence of the circumstance that is a bond between us
now."
("I think that's all right, proper courteous, though not
lacking in force and firmness . . . I don't think there is
anything for him to take offence at. Besides, I'm fully within
my rights," thought Mr. Golyadkin, reading over what he had
written.)
"Your strange and sudden appearance, sir, on a stormy
night, after the coarse and unseemly behavious of my
enemies to me, for whom I feel too much contempt even to
mention their names, was the starting-point of all the
misunderstanding existing between us at the present time.
Your obstinate desire to persist in your course of action, sir,
and forcibly to enter the circle of my existence and all my
relations in practical life, transgresses every limit imposed by
the merest politeness and every rule of civilized society. I
imagine there is no need, sir, for me to refer to the seizure by
you of my papers, and particularly to your taking away my
good name, in order to gain the favour of my superiors -
favour you have not deserved. There is no need to refer here
either to your intentional and insulting refusal of the
necessary explanation in regard to us. Finally, to omit
nothing, I will not allude here to your last strange, on my
even say, your incomprehensible behaviour to me in the
coffee-house. I am far from lamenting over the needless - for
me - loss of a rouble; but I cannot help expressing my
indignation at the recollection of your public outrage upon
me, to the detriment of my honour, and what is more, in the
presence of several persons of good breeding, though not
belonging to my circle of acquaintance."
("Am I not going too far?" thought Mr. Golyadkin. "Isn't
it too much; won't it be too insulting - that taunt about good
breeding, for instance? . . . But there, it doesn't matter! I
must show him the resoluteness of my character. I might,
however, to soften him, flatter him, and butter him up at the
end. But there, we shall see.")
"But I should not weary you with my letter, sir, if I were
not firmly convinced that the nobility of your sentiments and
your open, candid character would suggest to you yourself a
means for retrieving all lapses and returning everything to its
original position.
"With full confidence I venture to rest assured that you
will not take my letter in a sense derogatory to yourself, and
at the same time that you will not refuse to explain yourself
expressly on this occasion by letter, sending the same by my
man.
"In expectation of your reply, I have the honour, dear sir,
to remain,
"Your humble servant,
"Y. Golyadkin."
"Well, that is quite all right. The thing's done, it has come
to letter-writing. But who is to blame for that? He is to
blame himself: by his own action he reduces a man to the
necessity of resorting to epistolary composition. And I am
within my rights. . . ."
Reading over his letter for the last time, Mr. Golyadkin
folded it up, sealed it and called Petrushka. Petrushka came
in looking, as usual, sleepy and cross about something.
"You will take this letter, my boy . . . do you understand?"
Petrushka did not speak.
"You will take it to the department; there you must find
the secretary on duty, Vahramyev. He is the one on duty
today. Do you understand that?"
"I understand."
"'I understand'! He can't even say, 'I understand, sir!' You
must ask the secretary, Vahramyev, and tell him that your
master desired you to send his regards, and humbly requests
him to refer to the address book of our office and find out
where the titular councillor, Golyadkin, is living?"
Petrushka remained mute, and, as Mr. Golyadkin fancied,
smiled.
"Well, so you see, Pyotr, you have to ask him for the
address, and find out where the new clerk, Golyadkin, lives."
"Yes."
"You must ask for the address and then take this letter
there. Do you understand?"
"I understand."
"If there . . . where you have to take the letter, that
gentleman to whom you have to give the letter, that
Golyadkin . . . What are you laughing at, you blockhead?"
"What is there to laugh at? What is it to me! I wasn't
doing anything, sir. it's not for the likes of us to laugh. . . ."
"Oh, well . . . if that gentleman should ask, 'How is your
master, how is he'; if he . . . well, if he should ask you
anything - you hold your tongue, and answer, 'My master is
all right and begs you for an answer to his letter.' Do you
understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, then, say, 'My master is all right and quite well,' say
'and is just getting ready to pay a call: and he asks you,' say,
'for an answer in writing.' Do you understand?"
"Yes."
"Well, go along, then."
"Why, what a bother I have with this blockhead too! He's
laughing, and there's nothing to be done. What's he laughing
at? I've lived to see trouble. Here I've lived like this to see
trouble. Though perhaps it may all turn out for the best. . . .
That rascal will be loitering about for the next two hours
now, I expect; he'll go off somewhere else. . . . There's no
sending him anywhere. What a misery it is! . . . What misery
has come upon me!"
Feeling his troubles to the full, our hero made up his mind
to remain passive for two hours till Petrushka returned. For
an hour of the time he walked about the room, smoked, then
put aside his pipe and sat down to a book, then he lay down
on the sofa, then took up his pipe again, then again began
running about the room. He tried to think things over but
was absolutely unable to think about anything. At last the
agony of remaining passive reached the climax and Mr.
Golyadkin made up his mind to take a step. "Petrushka will
come in another hour," he thought. "I can give the key to the
porter, and I myself can, so to speak . . . I can investigate the
matter: I shall investigate the matter in my own way."
Without loss of time, in haste to investigate the matter, Mr.
Golyadkin took his hat, went out of the room, locked up his
flat, went in to the porter, gave him the key, together with ten
kopecks - Mr. Golyadkin had become extraordinarily
free-handed of late - and rushed off. Mr. Golyadkin went
first on foot to the Ismailovsky Bridge. It took him half an
hour to get there. When he reached to goal of his journey he
went straight into the yard of the house so familiar to him,
and glanced up at the windows of the civil councillor
Berendyev's flat. Except for three windows hung with red
curtains all the rest was dark.
"Olsufy Ivanovitch has no visitors today," thought Mr.
Golyadkin; "they must all be staying at home today."
After standing for some time in the yard, our hero tried to
decide on some course of action. but he was apparently not
destined to reach a decision. Mr. Golyadkin changed his
mind, and with a wave of his hand went back into the street.
"No, there's no need for me to go today. What could I do
here? . . . No, I'd better, so to speak . . . I'll investigate the
matter personally."
Coming to this conclusion, Mr. Golyadkin rushed off to
his office. He had a long way to go. It was horribly muddy,
besides, and the wet snow lay about in thick drifts. But it
seemed as though difficulty did not exist for our hero at the
moment. He was drenched through, it is true, and he was a
ood deal spattered with mud.
"But that's no matter, so long as the object is obtained."
And Mr. Golyadkin certainly was nearing his goal. The
dark mass of the huge government building stood up black
before his eyes.
"Stay," he thought; "where am I going, and what am I
going to do here? Suppose I do find out where he lives?
Meanwhile, Petrushka will certainly have come back and
brought me the answer. I am only wasting my precious time,
I am simply wasting my time. Though shouldn't I, perhaps,
go in and see Vahramyev? But, no, I'll go later. . . . Ech!
There was no need to have gone out at all. But, there, it's my
temperament! I've a knack of always seizing a chance of
rushing ahead of things, whether there is a need to or not. . .
. H'm! . . . what time is it? It must be nine by now.
Petrushka might come and not find me at home. It was pure
folly on my part to go out. . . Ech, it is really a nuisance!"
Sincerely acknowledging that he had been guilty of an act
of folly, our hero ran back to Shestilavotchny Street. He
arrived there, weary and exhausted. From the porter he
learned that Petrushka has not dreamed of turning up yet.
"To be sure! I foresaw it would be so," thought our hero;
and meanwhile it's nine o'clock. Ech, he's such a
good-for-nothing chap! He's always drinking somewhere!
Mercy on us! What a day had fallen to my miserable lot!"
Reflecting in this way, Mr. Golyadkin unlocked his flat,
got a light, took off his outdoor things, lighted his pipe and,
tired, worn-out, exhausted and hungry, lay down on the sofa
and waited for Petrushka. The candle burnt dimly; the light
flickered on the wall. . . . Mr. Golyadkin gazed and gazed,
and thought and thought, and fell asleep at last, worn out.
It was late when he woke up. The candle had almost burnt
down, was smoking and on the point of going out. Mr.
Golyadkin jumped up, shook himself, and remembered it all,
absolutely all. behind the screen he heard Petrushka snoring
lustily. Mr. Golyadkin rushed to the window - not a light
anywhere. he opened the movable pane - all was still; the
city was asleep as though it were dead: so it must have been
two or three o'clock; so it proved to be, indeed; the clock
behind the partition made an effort and struck two. Mr.
Golyadkin rushed behind the partition.
He succeeded, somehow, though only after great exertions,
in rousing Petrushka, and making him sit up in his bed. At
that moment the candle went out completely. About ten
minutes passed before Mr. Golyadkin succeeded in finding
another candle and lighting it. In the interval Petrushka had
fallen asleep again.
"You scoundrel, you worthless fellow!" said Mr.
Golyadkin, shaking him up again. "Will you get up, will you
wake?" After half an hour of effort Mr. Golyadkin
succeeded, however, in rousing his servant thoroughly, and
dragging him out from behind the partition. Only then, our
hero remarked the fact that Petrushka was what is called
dead-drunk and could hardly stand on his legs.
"You good-for-nothing fellow!" cried Mr. Golyadkin;
"you ruffian! You'll be the death of me! Good heavens!
whatever has he done with the letter? Ach, my God! where
is it? . . . And why did I write it? As though there were any
need for me to have written it! I went scribbling away out of
pride, like a noodle! I've got myself into this fix out of pride!
That is what dignity does for you, you rascal, that is dignity!
. . . Come, what have you done with the letter, you ruffian?
To whom did you give it?"
"I didn't give any one any letter; and I never had any letter
. . . so there!"
Mr. Golyadkin wrung his hands in despair.
"Listen, Pyotr . . . listen to me, listen to me . . ."
"I am listening . . ."
"Where have you been? - answer . . ."
"Where have I been . . . I've been to see good people!
What is it to me!"
"Oh, Lord, have mercy on us! Where did you go, to begin
with? Did you go to the department? . . . Listen, Pyotr,
perhaps you're drunk?"
"Me drunk! If I should be struck on the spot this minute,
not a drop, not a drop - so there. . . ."
"No, no, it's no matter you're being drunk. . . . I only
asked; it's all right your being drunk; I don't mind, Petrushka,
I don't mind. . . . Perhaps it's only that you have forgotten,
but you'll remember it all. Come, try to remember - have you
been to that clerk's, to Vahramyev's; have you been to him or
not?"
"I have not been, and there's no such clerk. Not if I were
this minute . . ."
"No, no, Pyotr! No, Petrushka, you know I don't mind.
Why, you see I don't mind. . . . Come, what happened? To
be sure, it's cold and damp in the street, and so a man has a
drop, and it's no matter. I am not angry. I've been drinking
myself today, my boy. . . . Come, think and try and
remember, did you go to Vahramyev?"
"Well, then, now, this is how it was, it's the truth - I did
go, if this very minute . . ."
"Come, that is right, Petrushka, that is quite right that
you've been. you see I'm not angry. . . . Come, come," our
hero went on, coaxing his servant more and more, patting
him on the shoulder and smiling to him, "come, you had a
little nip, you scoundrel. . . . You had two-penn'orth of
something I suppose? You're a sly rogue! Well, that's no
matter; come, you see that I'm not angry . . . . I'm not angry,
my boy, I'm not angry. . . ."
"No, I'm not a sly rogue, say what you like. . . . I only
went to see some good friends. I'm not a rogue, and I never
have been a rogue. . . ."
"Oh, no, no, Petrushka; listen, Petrushka, you know I'm
not scolding when I called you a rogue. I said that in fun, I
said it in a good sense. You see, Petrushka, it is sometimes
a compliment to a man when you call him a rogue, a cunning
fellow, that he's a sharp chap and would not let any one take
him in. Some men like it . . . Come, come, it doesn't matter!
Come, tell me, Petrushka, without keeping anything back,
openly, as to a friend . . . did you go to Vahramyev's, and did
he give you the address?"
"He did give me the address, he did give me the address
too. He's a nice gentleman! 'You master,' says he, 'is a nice
man,' says he, 'very nice man;' says he, 'I send my regards,'
says he, 'to your master, thank him and say that I like him,'
says he - 'how I do respect your master,' says he. 'Because,'
says he, 'your master, Petrushka,' says he, 'is a good man, and
you,' says he, 'Petrushka, are a good man too . . . .'"
"Ah, mercy on us! But the address, the address! You
Judas!" The last word Mr. Golyadkin uttered almost in a
whisper.
"And the address . . . he did give the address too."
"He did? Well, where does Golyadkin, the clerk
Golyadkin, the titular councillor, live?"
"'Why,' says he, 'Golyadkin will be now at Shestilavotchny
Street. When you get into Shestilavotchny Street take the
stairs on the right and it's on the fourth floor. And there,'
says he, 'you'll find Golyadkin. . . ."
"You scoundrel!" our hero cried, out of patience at last.
"You're a ruffian! Why, that's my address; why, you are
talking about me. But there's another Golyadkin; I'm talking
about the other one, you scoundrel!"
"Well, that's as you please! What is it to me? Have it your
own way . . ."
"And the letter, the letter?" . . .
"What letter? There wasn't any letter, and I didn't see any
letter."
"But what have you done with it, you rascal?"
"I delivered the letter, I delivered it. He sent his regards.
'Thank you,' says he, 'your master's a nice man,' says he.
'Give my regards,' says he, 'to your master. . . .'"
"But who said that? Was it Golyadkin said it?"
Petrushka said nothing for a moment, and then, with a
broad grin, he stared straight into his master's face. . . .
"Listen, you scoundrel!" began Mr. Golyadkin, breathless,
beside himself with fury; "listen, you rascal, what have you
done to me? Tell me what you've done to me! You've
destroyed me, you villain, you've cut the head off my
shoulders, you Judas!"
"Well, have it your own way! I don't care," said Petrushka
in a resolute voice, retreating behind the screen.
"Come here, come here, you ruffian. . . ."
"I'm not coming to you now, I'm not coming at all. What
do I care, I'm going to good folks. . . . Good folks live
honestly, good folks live without falsity, and they never have
doubles. . . ."
Mr. Golyadkin's hands and feet went icy cold, his breath
failed him. . . .
"Yes," Petrushka went on, "they never have doubles. God
doesn't afflict honest folk. . . ."
"You worthless fellow, you are drunk! Go to sleep now,
you ruffian! And tomorrow you'll catch it," Mr. Golyadkin
added in a voice hardly audible. As for Petrushka, he
muttered something more; then he could be heard getting into
bed, making the bed creak. After a prolonged yawn, he
stretched; and at last began snoring, and slept the sleep of the
just, as they say. Mr. Golyadkin was more dead than alive.
Petrushka's behaviour, his very strange hints, which were yet
so remote that it was useless to be angry at them, especially
as they were uttered by a drunken man, and, in short, the
sinister turn taken by the affair altogether, all this shook Mr.
Golyadkin to the depths of his being.
"And what possessed me to go for him in the middle of the
night?" said our hero, trembling all over from a sickly
sensation. "What the devil made me have anything to do
with a drunken man! What could I expect from a drunken
man? Whatever he says is a lie. But what was he hinting at,
the ruffian? Lord, have mercy on us! And why did I write
that letter? I'm my own enemy, I'm my own murderer! As
if I couldn't hold my tongue? I had to go scribbling
nonsense! And what now! You are going to ruin, you are
like an old rag, and yet you worry about your pride; you say,
'my honour is wounded,' you must stick up for your honour!
Mr own murderer, that is what I am!"
Thus spoke Mr. Golyadkin and hardly dared to stir for
terror. At last his eyes fastened upon an object which excited
his interest to the utmost. In terror lest the object that caught
his attention should prove to be an illusion, a deception of his
fancy, he stretched out his hand to it with hope, with dread,
with indescribable curiosity. . . . No, it was not a deception
Not a delusion! It was a letter, really a letter, undoubtedly a
letter, and addressed to him. Mr. Golyadkin took the letter
from the table. His heart beat terribly.
"No doubt that scoundrel brought it," he thought, "put it
there, and then forgot it; no doubt that is how it happened: no
doubt that is just how it happened. . . ."
The letter was from Vahramyev, a young fellow-clerk who
had once been his friend. "I had a presentiment of this,
thought," thought our hero, "and I had a presentiment of all
that there will be in the letter. . . ."
The letter was as follows -
"Dear Sir Yakov Petrovitch!
"Your servant is drunk, and there is no getting any sense
out of him. For that reason I prefer to reply by letter. I
hasten to inform you that the commission you've entrusted to
me - that is, to deliver a letter to a certain person you know,
I agree to carry out carefully and exactly. That person, who
is very well known to you and who has taken the place of a
friend to me, whose name I will refrain from mentioning
(because I do not wish unnecessarily to blacken the
reputation of a perfectly innocent man), lodges with us at
Karolina Ivanovna's, in the room in which, when you were
among us, the infantry officer from Tambov used to be. That
person, however, is always to be found in the company of
honest and true-hearted persons, which is more than one can
say for some people. I intend from this day to break off all
connection with you; it's impossible for us to remain on
friendly terms and to keep up the appearance of comradeship
congruous with them. And, therefore, I beg you, dear sir,
immediately on the receipt of this candid letter from me, to
send me the two roubles you owe me for the razor of foreign
make which I sold you seven months ago, if you will kindly
remember, when you were still living with us in the lodgings
of Karolina Ivanovna, a lady whom I respect from the bottom
of my heart. I am acting in this way because you, from the
accounts I hear from sensible persons, have lost your dignity
and reputation and have become a source of danger to the
morals of the innocent and uncontaminated. For some
persons are not straightforward, their words are full of falsity
and their show of good intentions is suspicious. People can
always be found capable of insulting Karolina Ivanovna, who
is always irreproachable in her conduct, and an honest
woman, and, what's more, a maiden lady, though no longer
young - though, on the other hand, of a good foreign family
- and this fact I've been asked to mention in this letter by
several persons, and I speak also for myself. In any case you
will learn all in due time, if you haven't learnt it yet, though
you've made yourself notorious from one end of the town to
the other, according to the accounts I hear from sensible
people, and consequently might well have received
intelligence relating to you, my dear sir, that a certain person
you know, whose name I will not mention here, for certain
honourable reasons, is highly respected by right-thinking
people, and is, moreover, of lively and agreeable disposition,
and is equally successful in the service and in the society of
persons of common sense, is true in word and in friendship,
and does not insult behind their back those with whom he is
on friendly terms to their face.
"In any case, I remain
"Your obedient servant,
"N. Vahramyev."
"P.S. You had better dismiss your man: he is a drunkard
and probably gives you a great deal of trouble; you had better
engage Yevstafy, who used to be in service here, and is not
out of a place. Your present servant is not only a drunkard,
but, what's more, he's a thief, for only last week he sold a
pound of sugar to Karolina Ivanovna at less than cost price,
which, in my opinion, he could not have done otherwise than
by robing you in a very sly way, little by little, at different
times. I write this to you for your own good, although some
people can do nothing but insult and deceive everybody,
especially persons of honesty and good nature; what is more,
they slander them behind their back and misrepresent them,
simply from envy, and because they can't call themselves the
same.
"V."
After reading Vahramyev's letter our hero remained for a
long time sitting motionless on his sofa. A new light seemed
breaking through the obscure and baffling fog which had
surrounded him for the last two days. Our hero seemed to
reach a partial understanding . . . He tried to get up from the
sofa to take a turn about the room, to rouse himself, to collect
his scattered ideas, to fix them upon a certain subject and
then to set himself to rights a little, to think over his position
thoroughly. But as soon as he tried to stand up he fell back
again at once, weak and helpless. "Yes, of course, I had a
presentiment of all that; how he writes though, and what is
the real meaning of his words. Supposing I do understand
the meaning; but what is it leading to? He should have said
straight out: this and that is wanted, and I would have done
it. Things have taken such a turn, things have come to such
an unpleasant pass! Oh, if only tomorrow would make haste
and come, and I could make haste and get to work! I know
now what to do. I shall say this and that, I shall agree with
his arguments, I won't sell my honour, but . . . maybe; but he,
that person we know of, that disagreeable person, how does
he come to be mixed up in it? And why has he turned up
here? Oh, if tomorrow would make haste and come! They'll
slander me before then, they are intriguing, they are working
to spite me! The great thing is not to lose time, and now, for
instance, to write a letter, and to say this and that and that I
agree to this and that. And as soon as it is daylight tomorrow
send it off, before he can do anything . . . and so checkmate
them, get in before them, the darlings. . . . They will ruin me
by their slanders, and that's the fact of the matter!"
Mr. Golyadkin drew the paper to him, took up a pen and
wrote the following missive in answer to the secretary's letter
-
"Dear Sir Nestor Ignatyevitch!
"With amazement mingled with heartfelt distress I have
perused your insulting letter to me, for I see clearly that you
are referring to me when you speak of certain discreditable
persons and false friends. I see with genuine sorrow how
rapidly the calumny has spread and how deeply it has taken
root, to the detriment of my prosperity, my honour and my
good name. And this is the more distressing and mortifying
that even honest people of a genuinely noble way of thinking
and, what is even more important, of straightforward and
open dispositions, abandon the interests of honourable men
and with all the qualities of their hearts attach themselves to
the pernicious corruption, which in our difficult and immoral
age has unhappily increased and multiplied so greatly and so
disloyally. In conclusion, I will say that the debt of two
roubles of which you remind me I regard as a sacred duty to
return to you in its entirety.
"As for your hints concerning a certain person of the
female sex, concerning the intentions, calculations and
various designs of that person, I can only tell you, sir, that I
have but a very dim and obscure understanding of those
insinuations. Permit me, sir, to preserve my honourable way
of thinking and my good name undefiled, in any case. I am
ready to stoop to a written explanation as more secure, and I
am, moreover, ready to enter into conciliatory proposals on
mutual terms, of course. To that end I beg you, my dear sir,
to convey to that person my readiness for a personal
arrangement and, what is more, to beg her to fix the time and
place of the interview. It grieved me, sir, to read your hints
of my having insulted you, having been treacherous to our
original friendship and having spoken ill of you. I ascribe
this misunderstanding to the abominable calumny, envy and
ill-will of those whom I may justly stigmatize as my bitterest
foes. But I suppose they do not know that innocence is
strong through its very innocence, that the shamelessness, the
insolence and the revolting familiarity of some persons,
sooner or later gains the stigma of universal contempt; and
that such persons come to ruin through nothing but their own
worthlessness and the corruption of their own hearts. In
conclusion, I beg you, sir, to convey to those persons that
their strange pretensions and their dishonourable and
fantastic desire to squeeze others out of the position which
those others occupy, by their very existence in this world,
and to take their place, are deserving of contempt,
amazement, compassion and, what is more, the madhouse;
moreover, such efforts are severely prohibited by law, which
in my opinion is perfectly just, for every one ought to be
satisfied with his own position. Every one has his fixed
position, and if this is a joke it is a joke in very bad taste. I
will say more: it is utterly immoral, for, I make bold to assure
you, sir, my own views which I have expounded above, in
regard to keeping one's own place, are purely moral.
"In any case I have the honour to remain,
"Your humble servant,
"Y. Golyadkin."