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THE DOUBLE
DOPPLEGANGER
THEORY
Dada Manifesto
Surrealist Manifesto
POETRY
RELIGION
|
Chapter XIII
. . . It seemed as though the weather meant to change for the
better. The snow, which had till then been coming down in
regular clouds, began growing visible and here and there tiny
stars sparkled in it. It was only wet, muddy, damp and
stifling, especially for Mr. Golyadkin, who could hardly
breathe as it was. His greatcoat, soaked and heavy with wet,
sent a sort of unpleasant warm dampness all through him and
weighed down his exhausted legs. A feverish shiver sent
sharp, shooting pains all over him; he was in a painful cold
sweat of exhaustion, so much so that Mr. Golyadkin even
forgot to repeat at every suitable occasion with his
characteristic firmness and resolution his favourite phrase
that "it all, maybe, most likely, indeed, might turn out for the
best." "But all this does not matter for the time," our hero
repeated, still staunch and not downhearted, wiping from his
face the cold drops that streamed in all directions from the
brim of his round hat, which was so soaked that it could hold
no more water. Adding that all this was nothing so far, our
hero tried to sit on a rather thick clump of wood, which was
lying near a heap of logs in Olsufy Ivanovitch's yard. Of
course, it was no good thinking of Spanish serenades or
silken ladders, but it was quite necessary to think of a modest
corner, snug and private, if not altogether warm. He felt
greatly tempted, we may mention in passing, by that corner
in the back entry of Olsufy Ivanovitch's flat in which he had
once, almost at the beginning of this true story, stood for two
hours between a cupboard and an old screen among all sorts
of domestic odds and ends and useless litter. The fact is that
Mr. Golyadkin had been standing waiting for two whole
hours on this occasion in Olsufy Ivanovitch's yard. But in
regard to that modest and snug little corner there were certain
drawbacks which had not existed before. The first drawback
was the fact that it was probably now a marked place and that
certain precautionary measures had been taken in regard to
it since the scandal at Olsufy Ivanovitch's last ball.
Secondly, he had to wait for a signal from Klara Olsufyevna,
for there was bound to be some such signal, it was always a
feature in such cases and, "it didn't begin with us and it won't
end with us."
At this point Mr. Golyadkin very appropriately
remembered a novel he had read long ago in which the
heroine, in precisely similar circumstances, signalled to
Alfred by tying a pink ribbon to her window. But now, at
night, in the climate of Petersburg, famous for its dampness
and unreliability, a pink ribbon was hardly appropriate and,
in fact, was utterly out of the question.
"No, it's not a matter of silk ladders," thought our hero,
"and I had better stay here quietly and comfortably . . . I had
better stand here."
And he selected a place in the yard exactly opposite the
window, near a stack of firewood. Of course, many persons,
grooms and coachmen, were continually crossing the yard,
and there was, besides, the rumbling of wheels and the
snorting of horses and so on; yet it was a convenient place,
whether he was observed or not; but now, anyway, there was
the advantage of being to some extent in the shadow, and no
one could see Mr. Golyadkin while he himself could see
everything.
The windows were brightly lit up, there was some sort of
ceremonious party at Olsufy Ivanovitch's. But he could hear
no music as yet.
"So it's not a ball, but a party of some other sort," thought
our hero, somewhat aghast. "Is it today?" floated the doubt
through him. "Have I made a mistake in the date? Perhaps;
anything is possible. . . . Yes, to be sure, anything is possible
. . . Perhaps she wrote a letter to me yesterday, and it didn't
reach me, and perhaps it did not reach me because Petrushka
put his spoke in, the rascal! Or it was tomorrow, that is -
wait with a carriage. . . ."
At this point our hero turned cold all over and felt in his
pocket for the letter, to make sure. But to his surprise the
letter was not in his pocket.
"How's this?" muttered Mr. Golyadkin, more dead than
alive. "Where did I leave it? Then I must have lost it. That
is the last straw!" he moaned at last. "Oh, if it falls into evil
hands! Perhaps in has already. Good Lord! What may it not
lead to! It may lead to something such that . . . Ach, my
miserable fate!" At this point Mr. Golyadkin began
trembling like a leaf at the thought that perhaps his vicious
twin had thrown the greatcoat at him with the object of
stealing the letter of which he had somehow got an inkling
from Mr. Golyadkin's enemies.
"What's more, he's stealing it," thought our hero, "as
evidence . . . but why evidence! . . ."
After the first shock of horror, the blood rushed to Mr.
Golyadkin's head. Moaning and gnashing his teeth, he
clutched his burning head, sank back on his block of wood
and relapsed into brooding. . . . But he could form no
coherent thought. Figures kept flitting through his brain,
incidents came back to his memory, now vaguely, now very
distinctly, the tunes of some foolish songs kept ringing in his
ears. . . . He was in great distress, unnatural distress!
"My God, my God!" our hero thought, recovering himself
a little, and suppressing a muffled sob, "give me fortitude in
the immensity of my afflictions! That I am done for, utterly
destroyed - of that there can be no doubt, and that's all in the
natural order of things, since it cannot be otherwise. To
begin with, I've lost my berth, I've certainly lost it, I must
have lost it . . . Well, supposing things are set right somehow.
Supposing I have money enough to begin with: I must have
another lodging, furniture of some sort. . . . In the first place,
I shan't have Petrushka. I can get on without the rascal . . .
somehow, with help from the people of the house; well, that
will be all right! I can go in and out when I like, and
Petrushka won't grumble at my coming in late - yes, that is
so; that's why it's a good thing to have the people in the
house. . . . Well, supposing that's all right; but all that's
nothing to do with it."
At this point the thought of the real position again dawned
upon Mr. Golyadkin's memory. He looked round.
"Oh, Lord, have mercy on me, have mercy on me! What
am I talking about?" he thought, growing utterly desperate
and clutching his burning head in his hands. . . .
"Won't you soon be going, sir?" a voice pronounced above
Mr. Golyadkin. Our hero started; before him stood his
cabman, who was also drenched through and shivering;
growing impatient, and having nothing to do, he had thought
fit to take a look at Mr. Golyadkin behind the woodstack.
"I am all right, my friend . . . I am coming soon, soon, very
soon; you wait . . ."
The cabman walked away, grumbling to himself. "What
is he grumbling about?" Mr. Golyadkin wondered through
his tears. "Why, I have hired him for the evening, why, I'm
. . . within my rights now . . . that's so! I've hired him for the
evening and that's the end of it. If one stands still, it's just the
same. That's for me to decide. I am free to drive on or not
to drive on. And my staying here by the woodstack has
nothing to do with the case. . . and don't dare to say anything;
think, the gentleman wants to stand behind the woodstack,
and so he's standing behind it . . . and he is not disgracing
any one's honour! That's the fact of the matter.
"I tell you what is it is, madam, if you care to know.
Nowadays, madam, nobody lives in a hut, or anything of that
sort. No, indeed. And in our industrial age there's no getting
on without morality, a fact of which you are a fatal example,
madam . . . You say we must get a job as a register clerk and
live in a hut on the sea-shore. In the first place, madam,
there are no register clerks on the sea-shore, and in the
second place we can't get a job as a register clerk. For
supposing, for example, I send in a petition, present myself
- saying a register clerk's place or something of the sort . . .
and defend me from my enemy . . . they'll tell you, madam,
they'll say, to be sure . . . we've lots of register clerks, and
here you are not at Madame Falbalas', where you learnt the
rules of good behaviour of which you are a fatal example.
Good behaviour, madam, means staying at home, honouring
your father and not thinking about suitors prematurely.
Suitors will come in good time, madam, that's so! Of course,
you are bound to have some accomplishments, such as
playing the piano sometimes, speaking French, history,
geography, scripture and arithmetic, that's the truth of it!
And that's all you need. Cooking, too, cooking certainly
forms part of the education of a well-behaved girl! But as it
is, in the first place, my fine lady, they won't let you go,
they'll raise a hue and cry after you, and then they'll lock you
up in a nunnery. How will it be then, madam? What will
you have me do then? Would you have me, madam, follow
the example of some stupid novels, and melt into tears on a
neighbouring hillock, gazing at the cold walls of your prison
house, and finally die, following the example of some
wretched German poets and novelists. Is that it, madam?
But, to begin with, allow me to tell you, as a friend, that
things are not done like that, and in the second place I would
have given you and your parents, too, a good thrashing for
letting you read French books; for French books teach you no
good. There's a poison in them . . . a pernicious poison,
madam! Or do you imagine, allow me to ask you, or do you
imagine that we shall elope with impunity, or something of
that sort . . . that was shall have a hut on the shore of the sea
and so on; and that we shall begin billing and cooing and
talking about our feelings, and that so we shall spend our
lives in happiness and content; and then there would be little
ones - so then we shall . . . shall go to our father, the civil
councillor, Olsufy Ivanovitch, and say, 'we've got a little one,
and so, on this propitious occasion remove your curse, and
bless the couple.' No, madam, I tell you again, that's not the
way to do things, and for the first thing there'll be no billing
and cooing and please don't reckon on it. Nowadays,
madam, the husband is the master and a good,
well-brought-up wife should try and please him in every
way. And endearments, madam, are not in favour,
nowadays, in our industrial age; the day of Jean Jacques
Rousseau is over. The husband comes home, for instance,
hungry from the office, and asks, 'Isn't there something to
eat, my love, a drop of vodka to drink, a bit of salt fish to
eat?' So then, madam, you must have the vodka and the
herring ready. Your husband will eat it with relish, and he
won't so much as look at you, he'll only say 'Run into the
kitchen, kitten,' he'll say, 'and look after the dinner, and at
most, once a week, he'll kiss you, even then rather
indifferently . . . That's how it will be with us, my young
lady! Yes, even then indifferently. . . . That's how it will be,
if one considers it, if it has come to one's looking at the thing
in that way. . . . And how do I come in? Why have you
mixed me up in your caprices? 'The noble man who is
suffering for your sake and will be dear to your heart for
ever,' and so on. but in the first place, madam, I am not
suited to you, you know yourself, I'm not a great hand at
compliments, I'm not fond of uttering perfumed trifles for the
ladies. I'm not fond of lady-killers, and I must own I've
never been a beauty to look at. You won't find any swagger
or false shame in me, and I tell you so now in all sincerity.
This is the fact of the matter: we can boast of nothing but a
straightforward, open character and common sense; we have
nothing to do with intrigues. I am not one to intrigue, I say
so and I'm proud of it - that's the fact of the matter! . . . I
wear no mask among straightforward people, and to tell you
the whole truth. . . ."
Suddenly Mr. Golyadkin started. The red and perfectly
sopping beard of the cabman appeared round the woodstack
again. . . .
"I am coming directly, my friend. I'm coming at once, you
know," Mr. Golyadkin responded in a trembling and failing
voice.
The cabman scratched his head, then stroked his beard,
and moved a step forward. . . stood still and looked
suspiciously at Mr. Golyadkin.
"I am coming directly, my friend; you see, my friend . . .
I . . . just a little, you see, only a second! . . . more . . . here,
you see, my friend. . . ."
"Aren't you coming at all?" the cabman asked at last,
definitely coming up to Mr. Golyadkin.
"No, my friend, I'm coming directly. I am waiting, you
see, my friend. . . ."
"So I see . . ."
"You see, my friend, I . . . What part of the country do you
come from, my friend?"
"We are under a master . . ."
"And have you a good master? . . ."
"All right . . ."
"Yes, my friend; you stay here, my friend, you see . . .
Have you been in Petersburg long, my friend?"
"It's a year since I came . . ."
"And are you getting on all right, my friend?"
"Middling."
"To be sure, my friend, to be sure. You must thank
Providence, my friend. You must look out for
straightforward people. Straightforward people are non too
common nowadays, my friend; he would give you washing,
food, and drink, my good fellow, a good man would. But
sometimes you see tears shed for the sake of gold, my friend
. . . you see a lamentable example; that's the fact of the
matter, my friend. . . ."
The cabman seemed to feel sorry for Mr. Golyadkin.
"Well, your honour, I'll wait. Will your honour be waiting
long?"
"No, my friend, no; I . . . you know . . . I won't wait any
longer, my good man . . . What do you think, my friend? I
rely upon you. I won't stay any longer."
"Aren't you going at all?"
"No, my friend, no; I'll reward you, my friend . . . that's the
fact of the matter. How much ought I to give you, my dear
fellow?"
"What you hired me for, please, sir. I've been waiting here
a long time; don't be hard on a man, sir."
"Well, here, my good man, here."
At this point Mr. Golyadkin gave six roubles to the
cabman, and made up his mind in earnest to waste no more
time, that is, to clear off straight away, especially as the
cabman was dismissed and everything was over, and so it
was useless to wait longer. He rushed out of the yard, went
out of the gate, turned to the left and without looking round
took to his heels, breathless and rejoicing. "Perhaps it will
all be for the best," he thought, "and perhaps in this way I've
run away from trouble." Mr. Golyadkin suddenly became all
at once light-hearted. "Oh, if only it could turn out for the
best!" thought our hero, though he put little faith in his own
words. "I know what I'll do . . ." he thought. "No, I know,
I'd better try the other tack . . . Or wouldn't it be better to do
this? . . ." In this way, hesitating and seeking for the solution
of his doubts, our hero ran to Semyonovsky Bridge; but
while running to Semyonovsky Bridge he very rationally and
conclusively decided to return.
"It will be better so," he thought. "I had better try the
other tack, that is . . . I will just go - I'll look on simply as an
outsider, an outsider - and nothing more, whatever happens
- it's not my fault, that's the fact of the matter! That's how it
shall be now."
Deciding to return, our hero actually did return, the more
readily because with this happy thought he conceived of
himself now as quite an outsider.
"It's the best thing; one's not responsible for anything, and
one will see all that's necessary . . . that's the fact of the
matter!"
It was a safe plan and that settled it. Reassured, he crept
back under the peaceful shelter of his soothing and protecting
woodstack, and began gazing intently at the window. This
time he was not destined to gaze and wait long. Suddenly a
strange commotion became apparent at all the windows.
Figures appeared, curtains were drawn back, whole groups of
people were crowding to the windows at Olsufy Ivanovitch's
flat. All were peeping out looking for something in the yard.
From the security of his woodstack, our hero, too, began with
curiosity watching the general commotion, and with interest
craned forward to right and to left so far as he could within
the shadow of the woodstack. Suddenly he started, held his
breath and almost sat down with horror. It seemed to him -
in short, he realized, that they were looking for nothing and
for nobody but him, Mr. Golyadkin! Every one was looking
in his direction. It was impossible to escape; they saw him
. . . In a flutter, Mr. Golyadkin huddled as closely as he could
to the woodstack, and only then noticed that the treacherous
shadow had betrayed him, that it did not cover him
completely. Our hero would have been delighted at that
moment to creep into a mouse-hole in the woodstack, and
there meekly to remain, if only it had been possible. But it
was absolutely impossible. In his agony he began at last
staring openly and boldly at the windows, it was the best
thing to do. . . . And suddenly he glowed with shame. He
had been fully discovered, every one was staring at him at
once, they were all waving their hands, all were nodding
their heads at him, all were calling to him; then several
windows creaked as they opened, several voices shouted
something to him at once. . . .
"I wonder why they don't whip these naughty girls as
children," our hero muttered to himself, losing his head
completely. Suddenly there an down the steps he (we know
who), without his hat or greatcoat, breathless, rubbing his
hands, wriggling, capering, perfidiously displaying intense
joy at seeing Mr. Golyadkin.
"Yakov Petrovitch," whispered this individual, so
notorious for his worthlessness, "Yakov Petrovitch, are you
here? You'll catch cold. It's chilly here, Yakov Petrovitch.
Come indoors."
"Yakov Petrovitch! No, I'm all right, Yakov Petrovitch,"
our hero muttered in a submissive voice.
"No, this won't do, Yakov Petrovitch, I beg you, I humbly
beg you to wait with us. 'Make him welcome and bring him
in,' they say, 'Yakov Petrovitch.'"
"No, Yakov Petrovitch, you see, I'd better . . . I had better
go home, Yakov Petrovitch . . ." said our hero, burning at a
slow fire and freezing at the same time with shame and
terror.
"No - no - no - no!" whispered the loathsome person. "No
- no - no, on no account! Come along," he said resolutely,
and he dragged Mr. Golyadkin senior to the steps. Mr.
Golyadkin senior did not at all want to go, but as every one
was looking at them, it would have been stupid to struggle
and resist; so our hero went - though, indeed, one cannot say
that he went, because he did not know in the least what was
being done with him. Though, after all, it made no
difference!
Before our hero had time to recover himself and come to
his senses, he found himself in the drawing-room. He was
pale, dishevelled, harassed; with lustreless eyes he scanned
the crowd - horror! The drawing-room, all the rooms - were
full to overflowing. There were masses of people, a whole
galaxy of ladies; and all were crowding round Mr. Golyadkin
and he perceived clearly that they were all forcing him in one
direction.
"Not towards the door," was the thought that floated
through Mr. Golyadkin's mind.
They were, in fact, forcing him not towards the door but
Olsufy Ivanovitch's easy chair. On one side of the armchair
stood Klara Olsufyevna, pale, languid, melancholy, but
gorgeously dressed. Mr. Golyadkin was particularly struck
by a little white flower which rested on her superb hair. On
the other side of the armchair stood Vladimir Semyonovitch,
clad in black, with his new order in his buttonhole. Mr.
Golyadkin was led in, as we have described above, straight
up to Olsufy Ivanovitch - on one side of him Mr. Golyadkin
junior, who had assumed an air of great decorum and
propriety, to the immense relief of our hero, while on the
other side was Andrey Filippovitch, with a very solemn
expression on his face.
"What can it mean?" Mr. Golyadkin wondered.
When he saw that he was being led to Olsufy Ivanovitch,
an idea struck him like a flash of lightning. The thought of
the intercepted letter darted through his brain. In great agony
our hero stood before Olsufy Ivanovitch's chair.
"What will he say now?" he wondered to himself. "Of
course, it will be all aboveboard now, that is, straightforward
and, one may say, honourable; I shall say this is how it is,
and so on."
But what our hero apparently feared did not happen.
Olsufy Ivanovitch received Mr. Golyadkin very warmly, and
though he did not hold out his hand to him, yet as he gazed
at out hero, he shook his grey and venerable head - shook it
with an air of solemn melancholy and yet of goodwill. So,
at least, it seemed to Mr. Golyadkin. He even fancied that a
tear glittered in Olsufy Ivanovitch's lustreless eyes; he raised
his eyes and saw that there seemed to be tears, too, on the
eyelashes of Klara Olsufyevna, who was standing by - that
there seemed to be something of the same sort even in the
eyes of Vladimir Semyonovitch - that the unruffled and
composed dignity of Andrey Filippovitch has the same
significance as the general tearful sympathy - that even the
young man who was so much like a civil councillor, seizing
the opportunity, was sobbing bitterly. . . . Though perhaps
this was only all Mr. Golyadkin's fancy, because he was so
much moved himself, and distinctly felt the hot tears running
down his cheeks. . . .
Feeling reconciled with mankind and his destiny, and
filled with love at the moment, not only for Olsufy
Ivanovitch, not only for the whole part collected there, but
even for his noxious twin (who seemed now to be by no
means noxious, and not even to be his twin at all, but a
person very agreeable in himself and in no way connected
with him), our hero, in a voice broken with sobs, tried to
express his feelings to Olsufy Ivanovitch, but was too much
overcome by all that he had gone through, and could not utter
a word; he could only, with an expressive gesture, point
meekly to his heart. . .
At last, probably to spare the feelings of the old man,
Andrey Filippovitch led Mr. Golyadkin a little away, though
he seemed to leave him free to do as he liked. Smiling,
muttering something to himself, somewhat bewildered, yet
almost completely reconciled with fate and his fellow
creatures, our hero began to make his way through the crowd
of guests. Every one made way for him, every one looked at
him with strange curiosity and with mysterious,
unaccountable sympathy. Our hero went into another room;
he met with the same attention everywhere; he was vaguely
conscious of the whole crowd closely following him, noting
every step he took, talking in undertones among themselves
of something very interesting, shaking their heads, arguing
and discussing in whispers. Mr. Golyadkin wanted very
much to know what they were discussing in whispers.
Looking round, he saw near him Mr. Golyadkin junior.
Feeling an overwhelming impulse to seize his hand and draw
him aside, Mr. Golyadkin begged the other Yakov Petrovitch
most particularly to co-operate with him in all his future
undertakings, and not to abandon him at a critical moment.
Mr. Golyadkin junior nodded his head gravely and warmly
pressed the hand of Mr. Golyadkin senior. Our hero's heart
was quivering with hte intensity of his emotion. He was
gasping for breath, however; he felt so oppressed - so
oppressed; he felt that all those eyes fastened upon him were
oppressing and dominating him . . . . Mr. Golyadkin caught
a glimpse of the councillor who wore a wig. The latter was
looking at him with a stern, searching eye, not in the least
softened by the general sympathy. . . .
Our hero made up his mind to go straight up to him in
order to smile at him and have an immediate explanation, but
this somehow did not come off. For one instant Mr.
Golyadkin became almost unconscious, almost lost all
memory, all feeling.
When he came to himself again he noticed that he was the
centre of a large ring formed by the rest of the party round
him. Suddenly Mr. Golyadkin's name was called from the
other room; noise and excitement, all rushed to the door of
the first room, almost carrying our hero along with them. In
the crush the hard-hearted councillor in the wig was side by
side with Mr. Golyadkin, and, taking our hero by the hand,
he made him sit down opposite Olsufy Ivanovitch, at some
distance from the latter, however. Every one in the room sat
down; the guests were arranged in rows round Mr. Golyadkin
and Olsufy Ivanovitch. Everything was hushed; every one
preserved a solemn silence; every one was watching Olsufy
Ivanovitch, evidently expecting something out of the
ordinary. Mr. Golyadkin noticed that beside Olsufy
Ivanovitch's chair and directly facing the councillor sat Mr.
Golyadkin junior, with Andrey Filippovitch. The silence was
prolonged; they were evidently expecting something.
"Just as it is in a family when some one is setting off on a
far journey. We've only to stand up and pray now," thought
our hero.
Suddenly there was a general stir which interrupted Mr.
Golyadkin's reflections. Something they had been waiting
for happened.
"He is coming, he is coming!" passed from one to another
in the crowd.
"Who is it that is coming?" floated through Mr.
Golyadkin's mind, and he shuddered at a strange sensation.
"High time too!" said the councillor, looking intently at
Andrey Ivanovitch. Andrey Filippovitch, for his part,
glanced at Olsufy Ivanovitch. Olsufy Ivanovitch gravely and
solemnly nodded his head.
"Let us stand up," said the councillor, and he made Mr.
Golyadkin get up. All rose to their feet. Then the councillor
took Mr. Golyadkin senior by the hand, and Andrey
Filippovitch took Mr. Golyadkin junior, and in this way these
two precisely similar persons were conducted through the
expectant crowd surrounding them. Our hero looked about
him in perplexity; but he was at once checked and his
attention was called to Mr. Golyadkin junior, who was
holding out his hand to him.
"They want to reconcile us," thought our hero, and with
emotion he held out his hand to Mr. Golyadkin junior; and
then - then bent his head forward towards him. The other
Mr. Golyadkin did the same. . . .
At this point it seemed to Mr. Golyadkin senior that his
perfidious friend was smiling, that he gave a sly, hurried
wink to the crowd of onlookers, and that there was something
sinister in the face of the worthless Mr. Golyadkin junior,
that he even made a grimace at the moment of his Judas kiss.
. . .
There was a ringing in Mr. Golyadkin's ears, and a
darkness before his eyes; it seemed to him that an infinite
multitude, an unending series of precisely similar Golyadkins
were noisily bursting in at every door of the room; but it was
too late. . . . the resounding, treacherous kiss was over, and
. . .
Then quite an unexpected event occurred. . . . The door
opened noisily, and in the doorway stood a man, the very
sight of whom sent a chill to Mr. Golyadkin's heart. He
stood rooted to the spot. A cry of horror died away in his
choking throat. Yet Mr. Golyadkin knew it all beforehand,
and had had a presentiment of something of the sort for a
long time. The new arrival went up to Mr. Golyadkin
gravely and solemnly. Mr. Golyadkin knew this personage
very well. He had seen him before, had seen him very often,
had seen him that day . . . This personage was a tall, thick-set
man in a black dress-coat with a good-sized cross on his
breast, and was possessed of thick, very black whiskers;
nothing was lacking but the cigar in the mouth to complete
the picture. Yet this person's eyes, as we have mentioned
already, sent a chill to the heart of Mr. Golyadkin. With a
grave and solemn air this terrible man approached the
pitiable hero of our story. . . . Our hero held out his hand to
him; the stranger took his hand and drew him along with him
. . . With a crushed and desperate air our hero looked about
him.
"It's . . . it's Krestyan Ivanovitch Rutenspitz, doctor of
medicine and surgery; your old acquaintance, Yakov
Petrovitch!" a detestable voice whispered in Mr. Golyadkin's
ear. He looked around: it was Mr. Golyadkin's twin, so
revolting in the despicable meanness of his soul. A
malicious, indecent joy shone in his countenance; he was
rubbing his hands with rapture, he was turning his head from
side to side in ecstasy, he was fawning round every one in
delight and seemed ready to dance with glee. At last he
pranced forward, took a candle from one of the servants and
walked in front, showing the way to Mr. Golyadkin and
Krestyan Ivanovitch. Mr. Golyadkin heard the whole party
in the drawing-room rush after him, crowding and squeezing
one another, and all beginning to repeat after Mr. Golyadkin
himself, "It is all right, don't be afraid, Yakov Petrovitch; this
is you old friend and acquaintance, you know, Krestyan
Ivanovitch Rutenspitz. . ."
At last they came out on the brightly lighted stairs; there
was a crowd of people on the stairs too. The front door was
thrown open noisily, and Mr. Golyadkin found himself on the
steps, together with Krestyan Ivanovitch. At the entrance
stood a carriage with four horses that were snorting with
impatience. The malignant Mr. Golyadkin junior in three
bounds flew down the stair and opened the carriage door
himself. Krestyan Ivanovitch, with an impressive gesture,
asked Mr. Golyadkin to get in. There was no need of the
impressive gesture, however; there were plenty of people to
help him in. . . . Faint with horror, Mr. Golyadkin looked
back. The whole of the brightly lighted staircase was
crowded with people; inquisitive eyes were looking at him
from all sides; Olsufy Ivanovitch himself was sitting in his
easy chair on the top landing, and watching all that took
place with deep interest. Every one was waiting. A murmur
of impatience passed through the crowd when Mr. Golyadkin
looked back.
"I hope I have done nothing . . . nothing reprehensible . .
. or that can call for severity . . . and general attention in
regard to my official relations," our hero brought out in
desperation. A clamour of talk rose all round him, all were
shaking their head, tears started from Mr. Golyadkin's eyes.
"In that case I'm ready . . . I have full confidence . . . and
I entrust my fate to Krestyan Ivanovitch. . . ."
No sooner had Mr. Golyadkin declared that he entrusted
his fate to Krestyan Ivanovitch than a dreadful, deafening
shout of joy came from all surrounding him and was repeated
in a sinister echo through the whole of the waiting crowd.
Then Krestyan Ivanovitch on one side and Andrey
Filippovitch on the other helped Mr. Golyadkin into the
carriage; his double, in his usual nasty way, was helping to
get him in from behind. The unhappy Mr. Golyadkin senior
took his last look on all and everything, and, shivering like a
kitten that has been drenched with cold water - if the
comparison may be permitted - got into the carriage.
Krestyan Ivanovitch followed him immediately. The
carriage door slammed. There was a swish of the whip on
the horses' backs. . . the horses started off. . . . The crowd
dashed after Mr. Golyadkin. The shrill, furious shouts of his
enemies pursued him by way of good wishes for his journey.
For some time several persons were still running by the
carriage that bore away Mr. Golyadkin; but by degrees they
were left behind, till at last they all disappeared. Mr.
Golyadkin's unworthy twin kept up longer than any one.
With his hands in the trouser pockets of his green uniform he
ran on with a satisfied air, skipping first to one and then to
the other side of the carriage, sometimes catching hold of the
window-frame and hanging on by it, poking his head in at the
window, and throwing farewell kisses to Mr. Golyadkin. But
he began to get tired, he was less and less often to be seen,
and at last vanished altogether. There was a dull ache in Mr.
Golyadkin's heart; a hot rush of blood set Mr. Golyadkin's
head throbbing; he felt stifled, he longed to unbutton himself
- to bare his breast, to cover it with snow and pour cold water
on it. He sank at last into forgetfulness. . . .
When he came to himself, he saw that the horses were
taking him along an unfamiliar road. There were dark
patches of copse on each side of it; it was desolate and
deserted. Suddenly he almost swooned; two fiery eyes were
staring at him in the darkness, and those two eyes were
glittering with malignant, hellish glee. "That's not Krestyan
Ivanovitch! Who is it? Or is it he? It is. It is Krestyan
Ivanovitch, but not the old Krestyan Ivanovitch, it's another
Krestyan Ivanovitch! It's a terrible Krestyan Ivanovitch!" .
. .
"Krestyan Ivanovitch, I . . . I believe . . . I'm all right,
Krestyan Ivanovitch," our hero was beginning timidly in a
trembling voice, hoping by his meekness and submission to
soften the terrible Krestyan Ivanovitch a little.
"You get free quarters, wood, with light, and service, the
which you deserve not," Krestyan Ivanovitch's answer rang
out, stern and terrible as a judge's sentence.
Our hero shrieked and clutched his head in his hands.
Alas! For a long while he had been haunted by a presentiment of this.
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