CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER INDEX
CHAPTER 13
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 XII
Petrushka came in swaggering, with a strangely casual
manner and an air of vulgar triumph on his face. It was
evident that he had some idea in his head, that he felt
thoroughly within his rights, and he looked like an
unconcerned spectator - that is, as though he were anybody's
servant rather than Mr. Golyadkin's.
"I say, you know, my good lad," our hero began
breathlessly, "what time is it?"
Without speaking, Petrushka went behind his partition,
then returned, and in a rather independent tone announced
that it was nearly half-past seven.
"Well, that's all right, my lad, that's all right. Come, you
see, my boy . . . allow me to tell you, my good lad, that
everything, I fancy, is at an end between us."
Petrushka said nothing.
"Well, now as everything is over between us, tell me
openly, as a friend, where you have been."
"Where I've been? To see good people, sir."
"I know, my good lad, I know. I have always been
satisfied with you, and I give you a character . . . Well, what
are you doing with them now?"
"Why, sir! You know yourself. We all know a decent
man won't teach you any harm."
"I know, my dear fellow, I know. Nowadays good people
are rare, my lad; prize them, my friend. Well, how are they?"
"To be sure, they . . . Only I can't serve you any longer,
sir; as your honour must know."
"I know, my dear fellow, I know your zeal and devotion;
I have seen it all, my lad, I've noticed it. I respect you, my
friend. I respect a good and honest man, even though he's a
lackey."
"Why, yes, to be sure! The like's of us, of course, as you
know yourself, are as good as anybody. That's so. We all
know, sir, that there's no getting on without a good man."
"Very well, very well, my boy, I feel it. . . . Come, here's
your money and here's your character. Now we'll kiss and
say good-bye, brother. . . . Come, now, my lad, I'll ask one
service of you, one last service," said Mr. Golyadkin, in a
solemn voice. "You see, my dear boy, all sorts of things
happen. Sorrow is concealed in gilded palaces, and there's
no escaping it. You know, my boy, I've always been kind to
you, my boy.
Petrushka remained mute.
"I believe I've always been kind to you, my dear fellow .
. . Come, how much linen have we now, my dear boy?"
"Well, it's all there. Linen shirts six, three pairs of socks;
four shirtfronts; flannel vests; of underlinen two sets. You
know all that yourself. I've got nothing of yours, sir. . . . I
look after my master's belongings, sir. I am like that, sir . .
. we all know . . . and I've . . . never been guilty of anything
of the sort, sir, you know yourself, sir . . ."
"I trust you, my lad, I trust you. I didn't mean that, my
friend, I didn't mean that, you know, my lad; I tell you what
. . . "
"To be sure, sir, we know that already. Why, when I used
to be in the service at general Stolnyakov's . . . I lost the lace
through the family's going away to Saratov . . . they've an
estate there . . ."
"No; I didn't mean that, my lad, I didn't mean that; don't
think anything of the sort, my dear fellow . . ."
"To be sure. It's easy, as you know yourself, sir, to take
away the character of folks like us. And I've always given
satisfaction - ministers, generals, senators, counts - I've
served them all. I've been at Prince Svintchatkin's, at
Colonel Pereborkin's, at General Nedobarov's - they've gone
away too, they've gone to their property. As we all know . .
."
"Yes, my lad, very good, my lad, very good. And now I'm
going away, my friend . . . A different path lies before each
man, no one can tell what road he may have to take. Come,
my lad, put out my clothes now, lay out my uniform too . . .
and my other trousers, my sheets, quilts and pillows . . ."
"Am I to pack them all in the bag?"
"Yes, my lad, yes; the bag, please. Who knows what may
happen to us. Come, my dear boy, you can go and find a
carriage . . ."
"A carriage?. . . "
"Yes, my lad, a carriage; a roomy one, and take it by the
hour. And don't imagine anything . . ."
"Are you planning to go far away, sir?"
"I don't know my lad, I don't know that either. I think you
had better pack my feather bed too. What do you think, my
lad? I am relying on you, my dear fellow . . ."
"Is your honour setting off at once?"
"Yes, my friend, yes! Circumstances have turned out so
. . . so it is, my dear fellow, so it is . . ."
"To be sure, sir; when we were in the regiment the same
thing happened to the lieutenant; they eloped from a country
gentleman's . . ."
"Eloped? . . . How! My dear fellow!"
"Yes, sir, eloped, and they were married in another house.
Everything was got ready beforehand. There was a hue and
cry after them; the late prince took their part, and so it was all
settled . . ."
"They were married, but . . . how is it, my dear fellow . .
. How did you come to know, my boy?"
"Why, to be sure! The earth is full of rumours, sir. We
know, sir, we've all . . . to be sure, there's no one without sin.
Only I'll tell you now, sir, let me speak plainly and vulgarly,
sir; since it has come to this, I must tell you, sir; you have an
enemy - you've a rival, sir, a powerful rival, so there . . ."
"I know, my dear fellow, I know; you know yourself, my
dear fellow. . . . So, you see, I'm relying upon you. What are
we to do now, my friend! How do you advise me?"
"Well, sir, if you are in that way now, if you've come, so
to say, to such a pass, sir, you'll have to make some
purchases, sir - say some sheets, pillows, another feather bed,
a double one, a good quilt - here at the neighbours downstairs
- she's a shopkeeper, sir - she has a good fox-fur cloak, so
you might look at it and buy it, you might have a look at it at
once. You'll need it now, sir; it's a good cloak, sir,
satin-lined with fox . . ."
"Very good, my lad, very good, I agree; I rely upon you,
I rely upon you entirely; a cloak by all means, if necessary .
. . Only make haste, make haste! For God's sake make haste!
I'll buy the cloak - only please make haste! It will soon be
eight o'clock. Make haste for God's sake, my dear lad!
Hurry up, my lad . . ."
Petrushka ran up to gather together a bundle of linen,
pillows, quilt, sheets, and all sorts of odds and ends, tied
them up and rushed headlong out of the room. Meanwhile,
Mr. Golyadkin seized the letter once more, but he could not
read it. Clutching his devoted head, he leaned against the
wall in a state of stupefaction. He could not think of
anything, he could do nothing either, and could not even tell
what was happening to him. At last, seeing that time was
passing and neither Petrushka nor the fur cloak had made
their appearance, Mr. Golyadkin made up his mind to go
himself. Opening the door into the entry, he heard below
noise, talk, disputing and scuffling . . . Several of the women
of the neighbouring flats were shouting, talking and
protesting about something - Mr. Golyadkin knew what.
Petrushka's voice was heard: then there was a sound of
footsteps.
"My goodness! They'll bring all the world in here,"
moaned Mr. Golyadkin, wringing his hands in despair and
rushing back into his room. Running back into his room, he
fell almost senseless on the sofa with his face in the pillow.
After lying a minute in this way, he jumped up and, without
waiting for Petrushka, he put on his goloshes, his hat and his
greatcoat, snatched up his papers and ran headlong
downstairs.
"Nothing is wanted, nothing, my dear fellow! I will
manage myself - everything myself. I don't need you for the
time, and meantime, things may take a better turn, perhaps,"
Mr. Golyadkin muttered to Petrushka, meeting him on the
stair; then he ran out into the yard, away from the house.
There was a faintness at his heart, he had not yet made up his
mind what was his position, what he was to do, how he was
to act in the present critical position.
"Yes, how am I to act? Lord, have mercy on me! And
that all this should happen!" he cried out at last in despair,
tottering along the street at random; "that all this must needs
happen! Why, but for this, but for just this, everything would
have been put right; at one stroke, at one skilful, vigorous,
firm stroke it would have been set right. I would have my
finger cut off to have set right! And I know, indeed, how it
would have been settled. This is how it would have been
managed: I'd have gone on the spot . . . said how it was . . .
'with your permission, sir, I'm neither here nor there in it . .
. things aren't done like that,' I would say, 'my dear sir, things
aren't done like that, there's no accepting an imposter in our
office; an imposter . . . my dear sir, is a man . . . who is
worthless and of no service to his country. Do you
understand that? Do you understand that, my dear sir,' I
should say! That's how it would be . . . But no . . . after all,
things are not like that . . . not a bit like that . . . I am talking
nonsense, like a fool! A suicidal fool! It's not like that at all,
you suicidal fool . . . This is how things are done, though,
you profligate man! . . . Well, what am I to do with myself
now? Well, what am I going to do with myself now. What
am I fit for now? Come, what are you fit for now, for
instance, you, Golyadkin, you, you worthless fellow! Well,
what now? I must get a carriage; 'hire a carriage and bring it
here,' says she, 'we shall get our feet wet without a carriage,'
says she . . . And who could ever have thought it! Fie, fie,
my young lady! Fie, fie, a young lady of virtuous behaviour!
Well, well, the girl we all thought so much of! You've
distinguished yourself, madam, there's no doubt of that!
you've distinguished yourself! . . . And it all comes from
immoral education. And now that I've looked into it and
seen through it all I see that it is due to nothing else but
immorality. Instead of looking after her as a child . . . and
the rod at times . . . they stuff her with sweets and dainties,
and the old man is always doting over her: saying 'my dear,
my love, my beauty,' saying, 'we'll marry you to a count!' . .
. And now she has come forward herself and shown her
cards, as though to say that's her little game! Instead of
keeping her at home as a child, they sent her to a boarding
school, to a French madame, and emigre, a Madame Falbalas
or something, and she learned all sorts of things at that
Madame Falbalas', and this is how it always turns out.
'Come,' says she, 'and be happy! Be in a carriage,' she says,
'at such a time, under the windows, and sing a sentimental
serenade in the Spanish style; I await you and I know you
love me, and we will fly together and live in a hut.' But the
fact is it's impossible; since it has come to that, madam, it's
impossible, it is against the law to abduct an innocent,
respectable girl from her parents' roof without their sanction!
And, if you come to that, why, what for and what need is
there to do it? Come, she should marry a suitable person, the
man marked out by destiny, and that would be the end of it.
But I'm in the government service, I might lose my berth
through it: I might be arrested for it, madam! I tell you that!
If you did not know it. It's that German woman's doing.
She's a the bottom of it all, the witch; she cooked the whole
kettle of fish. For they've slandered a man, for they've
invented a bit of womanish gossip about him, a regular
performance by the advice of Andrey Filippovitch, that's
what it came from. Otherwise how could Petrushka be
mixed up in it? What has he to do with it? What need for
the rogue to be in it? No, I cannot, madam, I cannot
possibly, not on any account . . . No, madam, this time you
must really excuse me. It's all your doing, madam, it's not all
the German's doing, it's not the witch's doing at all, but
simply yours. For the witch is a good woman, for the witch
is not to blame in any way; it's your fault, madam; it's you
who are to blame, let me tell you! I shall not be charged with
a crime through you, madam. . . . A man might be ruined . .
. a man might lose sight of himself, and not be able to
restrain himself - a wedding, indeed! And how is it all going
to end? And how will it all be arranged? I would give a
great deal to know all that! . . ."
So our hero reflected in his despair. Coming to himself
suddenly, he observed that he was standing somewhere in
Liteyny Street. The weather was awful: it was a thaw; snow
and rain were falling - just as at that memorable time when
at the dread hour of midnight all Mr. Golyadkin's troubles
had begun. "This is a nice night for a journey!" thought Mr.
Golyadkin, looking at the weather; "it's death all round. . . .
Good Lord! Where am I to find a carriage, for instance? I
believe there's something black there at the corner. We'll see,
we'll investigate . . . Lord, have mercy on us!" our hero went
on, bending his weak and tottering steps in the direction in
which he saw something that looked like a cab.
"No, I know what I'll do; I'll go straight and fall on my
knees, if I can, and humbly beg, saying 'I put my fate in your
hands, in the hands of my superiors'; saying, 'Your
Excellency, be a protector and a benefactor'; and then I'll say
this and that, and explain how it is and that it is an unlawful
act; 'Do not destroy me, I look upon you as my father, do not
abandon me . . . save my dignity, my honour, my name, my
reputation . . . and save me from a miscreant, a vicious man.
. . . He's another person, your Excellency, and I'm another
person too; he's apart and I am myself by myself too; I am
really myself by myself, your Excellency; really myself by
myself,' that's what I shall say. 'I cannot be like him.
Change him, dismiss him, give orders for him to be changed
and a godless, licentious impersonation to be suppressed . .
. that it may not be an example to others, your Excellency.
I look upon you as a father'; those in authority over us, our
benefactors and protectors, are bound, of course, to
encourage such impulses. . . . There's something chivalrous
about it: I shall say, 'I look upon you, my benefactor and
superior, as a father, and trust my fate to you, and I will not
say anything against it; I put myself in your hands, and retire
from the affair myself' . . . that's what I would say."
"Well, my man, are you a cabman?"
"Yes . . ."
"I want a cab for the evening . . ."
"And does your honour want to go far?"
"For the evening, for the evening; wherever I have to go,
my man, wherever I have to go."
"Does your honour want to drive out of town?"
"Yes, my friend, out of town, perhaps. I don't quite know
myself yet, I can't tell you for certain, my man. Maybe you
see it will all be settled for the best. We all know, my friend
. . ."
"Yes, sir, of course we all know. Please God it may."
"Yes, my friend, yes; thank you, my dear fellow; come,
what's your fare, my good man? . . ."
"Do you want to set off at once?"
"Yes, at once, that is, no, you must wait at a certain place.
. . . A little while, not long, you'll have to wait. . . ."
"Well, if you hire me for the whole time, I couldn't ask
less than six roubles for weather like this . . ."
"Oh, very well, my friend; and I thank you, my dear
fellow. So, come, you can take me now, my good man."
"Get in; allow me, I'll put it straight a bit - now will your
honour get in. Where shall I drive?"
"To the Ismailovsky Bridge, my friend."
The driver plumped down on the box, with difficulty
roused his pair of lean nags from the trough of hay, and was
setting off for Ismailovsky Bridge. But suddenly Mr.
Golyadkin pulled the cord, stopped the cab, and besought
him in an imploring voice not to drive to Ismailovsky Bridge,
but to turn back to another street. The driver turned into
another street, and then minutes later Mr. Golyadkin's newly
hired equipage was standing before the house in which his
Excellency had a flat. Mr. Golyadkin got out of the carriage,
begged the driver to be sure to wait and with a sinking heart
ran upstairs to the third storey and pulled the bell; the door
was opened and our hero found himself in the entry of his
Excellency's flat.
"Is his Excellency graciously pleased to be at home?" said
Mr. Golyadkin, addressing the man who opened the door.
"What do you want?" asked the servant, scrutinizing Mr.
Golyadkin from head to foot.
"I, my friend . . . I am Golyadkin, the titular councillor,
Golyadkin . . . To say . . . something or other . . . to explain
. . ."
"You must wait; you cannot . . ."
"My friend, I cannot wait; my business is important, it's
business that admits of no delay . . ."
"But from whom have you come? Have you brought
papers?. . . "
"No, my friend, I am on my own account. Announce me,
my friend, say something or other, explain. I'll reward you,
my good man . . ."
"I cannot. His Excellency is not at home, he has visitors.
Come at ten o'clock in the morning . . ."
"Take in my name, my good man, I can't wait - it is
impossible. . . . You'll have to answer for it, my good man."
"Why, go and announce him! What's the matter with you;
want to save your shoe leather?" said another lackey who
was lolling on the bench and had not uttered a word till then.
"Shoe leather! I was told not to show any one up, you
know; their time is the morning."
"Announce him, have you lost your tongue?"
"I'll announce him all right - I've not lost my tongue. It's
not my orders; I've told you, it's not my orders. Walk
inside."
Mr. Golyadkin went into the outermost room; there was a
clock on the table. He glanced at it: it was half-past eight.
His heart ached within him. Already he wanted to turn back,
but at that very moment the footman standing at the door of
the next room had already boomed out Mr. Golyadkin's
name.
"Oh, what lungs," thought our hero in indescribable
misery. "Why, you ought to have said: 'he has come most
humbly and meekly to make an explanation . . . something .
. . be graciously pleased to see him' . . . Now the whole
business is ruined; all my hopes are scattered to the winds.
But . . . however . . . never mind . . ."
There was no time to think, moreover. The lackey,
returning, said, "Please walk in," and led Mr. Golyadkin into
the study.
When our hero went in, he felt as though he were blinded,
for he could see nothing at all . . . But three or four figures
seemed flitting before his eyes: "Oh, yes, they are the
visitors," flashed through Mr. Golyadkin's mind. At last our
hero could distinguish clearly the star on the black coat of his
Excellency, then by degrees advanced to seeing the black
coat and at last gained the power of complete vision. . . .
"What is it?" said a familiar voice above Mr. Golyadkin.
"The titular councillor, Golyadkin, your Excellency."
"Well?"
"I have come to make an explanation . . ."
"How? . . . What?"
"Why, yes. This is how it is. I've come for an
explanation, your Excellency . . ."
"But you . . . but who are you? . . ."
"M-m-m-mist-er Golyadkin, your Excellency, a titular
councillor."
"Well, what is it you want?"
"Why, this is how it is, I look upon you as a father; I retire
. . . defend me from my enemy! . . ."
"What's this? . . ."
"We all know . . ."
"What do we all know?"
Mr. Golyadkin was silent: his chin began twitching a little.
"Well?"
"I thought it was chivalrous, your Excellency . . . 'There's
something chivalrous in it,' I said, 'and I look upon my
superior as a father' . . . this is what I thought; 'protect me, I
tear . . . earfully . . . b . . . eg and that such imp . . . impulses
ought . . . to . . . be encouraged . . ."
His excellency turned away, our hero for some minutes
could distinguish nothing. There was a weight on his chest.
His breathing was laboured; he did not know where he was
standing . . . He felt ashamed and sad. God knows what
followed. . . Recovering himself, our hero noticed that his
Excellency was talking with his guests, and seemed to be
briskly and emphatically discussing something with them.
One of the visitors Mr. Golyadkin recognized at once. This
was Andrey Filippovitch; he knew no one else; yet there was
another person that seemed familiar - a tall, thick-set figure,
middle-aged, possessed of very thick eyebrows and whiskers
and a significant sharp expression. On his chest was an order
and in his mouth a cigar. This gentleman was smoking and
nodding significantly without taking the cigar out of his
mouth, glancing from time to time at Mr. Golyadkin. Mr.
Golyadkin felt awkward; he turned away his eyes and
immediately saw another very strange visitor. Through a
door which our hero had taken for a looking-glass, just as he
had done once before - he made his appearance - we know
who: a very intimate friend and acquaintance of Mr.
Golyadkin's. Mr. Golyadkin junior had actually been till
then in a little room close by, hurriedly writing something;
now, apparently, he was needed - and he came in with papers
under his arm, went up to his Excellency, and while waiting
for exclusive attention to be paid him succeeded very adroitly
in putting his spoke into the talk and consultation, taking his
place a little behind Andrey Filippovitch's back and partly
screening him from the gentleman smoking the cigar.
Apparently Mr. Golyadkin junior took an intense interest in
the conversation, to which he was listening now in a
gentlemanly way, nodding his head, fidgeting with his feet,
smiling, continually looking at his Excellency - as it were
beseeching him with his eyes to let him put his word in.
"The scoundrel," thought Mr. Golyadkin, and involuntarily
he took a step forward. At this moment his Excellency
turned round and came rather hesitatingly towards Mr.
Golyadkin.
"Well, that's all right, that's all right; well, run along, now.
I'll look into your case, and give orders for you to be taken .
. ."
At this point his Excellency glanced at the gentleman with
the thick whiskers. The latter nodded in assent.
Mr. Golyadkin felt and distinctly understood that they
were taking him for something different and not looking at
him in the proper light at all.
"In one way or another I must explain myself," he thought;
"I must say, 'This is how it is, your Excellency.'"
At this point in his perplexity he dropped his eyes to the
floor and to his great astonishment he saw a good-sized patch
of something white on his Excellency's boots.
"Can there be a hole in them?" thought Mr. Golyadkin.
Mr. Golyadkin was, however, soon convinced that his
Excellency's boots were not split, but were only shining
brilliantly - a phenomenon fully explained by the fact that
they were patent leather and highly polished.
"It is what they call blick," thought our hero; "the term is
used particularly in artists studios; in other places such a
reflected light is called a rib of light."
At this point Mr. Golyadkin raised his eyes and saw that
the time had come to speak, for things might easily end badly
. . .
Our hero took a step forward.
"I say this is how it is, your Excellency," he said, "and
there's no accepting imposters nowadays."
His Excellency made no answer, but rang the bell
violently. Our hero took another step forward.
"He is a vile, vicious man, your Excellency," said our
hero, beside himself and faint with terror, though he still
pointed boldly and resolutely at his unworthy twin, who was
fidgeting about near his Excellency. "I say this is how it is,
and I am alluding to a well-known person."
There was a general sensation at Mr. Golyadkin's words.
Andrey Filippovitch and the gentleman with the cigar nodded
their heads; his Excellency impatiently tugged at the bell to
summon the servants. At this point Mr. Golyadkin junior
came forward in his turn.
"Your Excellency," he said, "I humbly beg permission to
speak." There was something very resolute in Mr. Golyadkin
junior's voice; everything showed that he felt himself
completely in the right.
"Allow me to ask you," he began again, anticipating his
Excellency's reply in his eagerness, and this time addressing
Mr. Golyadkin; "allow me to ask you, in whose presence you
are making this explanation? Before whom are you standing,
in whose room are you? . . ."
Mr. Golyadkin junior was in a state of extraordinary
excitement, flushed and glowing with wrath and indignation;
there were positively tears in his eyes.
A lackey, appearing in the doorway, roared at the top of
his voice the name of some new arrivals, the Bassavryukovs.
"A good aristocratic name, hailing from Little Russia,"
thought Mr. Golyadkin, and at that moment he felt some one
lay a very friendly hand on his back, then a second hand was
laid on his back. Mr. Golyadkin's infamous twin was
tripping about in front leading the way; and our hero saw
clearly that he was being led to the big doors of the room.
"Just as it was at Olsufy Ivanovitch's," he thought, and he
found himself in the hall. Looking round, he saw beside him
two of the Excellency's lackeys and his twin.
"The greatcoat, the greatcoat, the greatcoat, the greatcoat,
my friend! The greatcoat of my best friend!" whispered the
depraved man, snatching the coat from one of the servants,
and by way of a nasty and ungentlemanly joke flinging it
straight at Mr. Golyadkin's head. Extricating himself from
under his coat, Mr. Golyadkin distinctly heard the two
lackeys snigger. But without listening to anything, or paying
attention to it, he went out of the hall and found himself on
the lighted stairs. Mr. Golyadkin junior following him.
"Goodbye, your Excellency!" he shouted after Mr.
Golyadkin senior.
"Scoundrel!" our hero exclaimed, beside himself.
"Well, scoundrel, then . . ."
"Depraved man! . . ."
"Well, depraved man, then . . ." answered Mr. Golyadkin's
unworthy enemy, and with his characteristic baseness he
looked down from the top of the stairs straight into Mr.
Golyadkin's face as though begging him to go on. Our hero
spat with indignation and ran out of the front door; he was so
shattered, so crushed, that he had no recollection of how he
got into the cab or who helped him in. Coming to himself, he
found that he was being driven to Fontanka. "To
Ismailovsky Bridge, then," thought Mr. Golyadkin. At this
point Mr. Golyadkin tried to think of something else, but
could not; there was something so terrible that he could not
explain it . . . "Well, never mind," our hero concluded, and he
drove to Ismailovsky Bridge.