The Double

CHAPTER IX

EVERYTHING, EVIDENTLY, and even nature itself, was up in arms against Mr. Goliadkin; but he was still on his feet and not vanquished; this he felt, that he was not vanquished. He was ready to fight. He rubbed his hands with such feeling and such energy, when he recovered from his initial amazement, that from Mr. Goliadkin’s look alone it could have been concluded that he would not yield. However, the danger was right under his nose, it was obvious; Mr. Goliadkin felt that, too; but how was he to handle this danger? That was the question. For a moment the thought even flashed in Mr. Goliadkin’s head: “What, say, if I just drop it all, what if I simply give it up? Well, what then? Well, nothing. I’ll be on my own, as if it’s not me,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, “I’ll let it all pass; it’s not me, that’s all; and he’ll also be on his own, perhaps he’ll give it up, too; he’ll fuss, the rogue, he’ll fuss, fidget a bit, and then give it up. There we have it! I’ll succeed by humility. And where’s the danger? well, what sort of danger? I wish somebody would point out to me the danger here. A paltry affair! an ordinary affair!…” Here Mr. Goliadkin stopped short. The words died on his tongue; he even swore at himself for this thought; even caught himself at once in baseness, in cowardice for this thought; though his affair still did not budge from the spot. He felt that resolving upon something at the present moment was an urgent necessity for him; he even felt that he would give a lot to whoever told him what precisely he must resolve upon. Well, but how was he to guess it? However, there was no time for guessing. In any case, so as not to lose time, he hired a cab and flew home. “So? how do you feel now?” he asked himself. “How do you feel now, if you please, Yakov Petrovich? What are you going to do? What are you going to do now, scoundrel that you are, rogue that you are! You’ve driven yourself to the utmost, and now you weep, and now you whimper!” So Mr. Goliadkin taunted himself, bobbing up and down in his cabby’s jolty vehicle. To taunt himself and thus aggravate his wounds at the present moment was some sort of deep pleasure for Mr. Goliadkin, even almost a sensual one. “Well, if some magician were to come now,” he thought, “or it happened somehow in an official way, and they said, ‘Give us a finger from your right hand, Goliadkin, and we’re quits; there’ll be no other Goliadkin, and you’ll be happy, only there’ll be no finger’—I’d give up the finger, I’d certainly give it up, give it up without wincing. Devil take it all!” the desperate titular councillor finally cried out. “Well, what’s it all for? Well, as if all this had to be; unfailingly this, precisely this, as if it could not possibly have been something else! And everything was fine at first, everyone was pleased and happy; but no, this had to happen! However, words won’t do anything. I must act.”

And so, having almost resolved on something, Mr. Goliadkin, entering his apartment, seized his pipe without a moment’s delay and, sucking at it with all his might, scattering puffs of smoke right and left, began rushing up and down the room in great agitation. Meanwhile Petrushka began to set the table. Finally, Mr. Goliadkin became fully resolved, suddenly abandoned his pipe, threw on his overcoat, said he would not be dining at home, and rushed out of the apartment. On the stairs, Petrushka, out of breath, caught up with him, holding his forgotten hat in his hands. Mr. Goliadkin took the hat, wanted in passing to justify himself a little in Petrushka’s eyes, so that Petrushka would not think anything special—say, that there’s this circumstance, that I forgot my hat, and so on—but since Petrushka refused even to look and went away at once, Mr. Goliadkin, without further explanations, put on his hat, rushed down the stairs and, muttering that all might still turn out for the best and that the affair would be settled somehow, though, incidentally, he felt a chill even all the way to his heels, went outside, hired a cab, and flew off to Andrei Filippovich’s. “However, wouldn’t it be better tomorrow?” thought Mr. Goliadkin, taking hold of the bell-pull at the door of Andrei Filippovich’s apartment. “And what am I going to say that’s so special? There’s nothing special here. It’s such a puny affair, yes, finally, it is in fact a puny, a paltry, that is, almost a paltry affair…there it is, there’s the whole thing, this circumstance…” Suddenly Mr. Goliadkin pulled the bell; the bell rang, someone’s steps were heard inside…Here Mr. Goliadkin even cursed himself, partly for his hastiness and boldness. The recent unpleasantnesses, which Mr. Goliadkin had nearly forgotten about on account of his affairs, and the confrontation with Andrei Filippovich, emerged at once in his memory. But it was too late to flee: the door opened. Fortunately for Mr. Goliadkin, the answer he received was that Andrei Filippovich had not come home from work and was not dining at home. “I know where he’s dining; he’s dining near the Izmailovsky Bridge,” our hero thought and felt terribly glad. To the servant’s question, “How shall I announce you?” he said, “Very well, my friend,” then “Later, my friend,” and ran down the stairs even with a certain briskness. Going outside, he decided to dismiss the carriage and paid the cabby. And when the cabby asked for a little extra, saying, “I waited a long time, sir, and didn’t spare my trotter for Your Honor,” he added five kopecks extra and even quite willingly; then he himself went on foot.

“The affair, in truth, is such,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, “that it cannot possibly be left like this; though, if you reason that way, if you reason sensibly, why should I really fuss over it? Well, no, however, I’ll keep talking about it, why should I fuss? why should I wear myself out, thrash about, suffer, kill myself? First of all, the deed is done, there’s no going back…no going back! Let’s reason this way: a man appears, a man appears with a satisfactory recommendation, say, a capable clerk, of good behavior, only he’s poor and has suffered various unpleasant-nesses—all those bad scrapes—well, but poverty’s no vice; which means, I’m outside it. Well, in fact, what is this nonsense? Well, it so happens, it’s so arranged, nature itself has so arranged it that a man resembles another man like two drops of water, that he’s a perfect copy of another man: should he not be taken into the department because of that?! If fate, if fate alone, if blind fortune alone is to blame here—should he be dirtied like an old rag, should he not be allowed to work…where will there be any justice after that? He’s a poor man, lost, intimidated; there’s heartache here, there’s compassion here telling us to show him kindness! Yes, indeed, they’d be fine superiors if they reasoned the way I do, dunderhead that I am! What a noddle I’ve got! Enough stupidity for ten sometimes! No, no! they did well, and should be thanked for sheltering the poor wretch…Well, so, suppose, for example, that we’re twins, that we were born like that, twin brothers, and that’s all—that’s the way it is! Well, what of it? Well, it’s nothing! It’s possible to get all the clerks accustomed to it…and some stranger, coming into our offices, would surely find nothing indecent or insulting in this circumstance. There’s even something touching here; that here, say, there’s such a thought: that, say, God’s design created two perfect likenesses, and our beneficent superiors, seeing God’s design, gave shelter to both twins. Of course,” Mr. Goliadkin went on, catching his breath and lowering his voice slightly, “of course…of course, it would be better if none of these touching things existed, and there were also no twins…Devil take it all! Who needed it? And what was this need that was so special and would suffer no postponement?! Lord God! A nice kettle of fish the devil’s cooked up! See, though, what a character he has, what a playful, nasty temper—what a scoundrel he is, what a fidget, a smoocher, a lickspittle, what a Goliadkin! For all I know, he may behave badly and besmirch my name, the blackguard. And now I have to look at him and take care of him! What a punishment! However, what then? well, who cares! Well, he’s a scoundrel—well, let him be a scoundrel, but the other will be honest. Well, so he’ll be a scoundrel, but I’ll be honest—and they’ll say, that Goliadkin’s a scoundrel, don’t look at him, and don’t confuse him with the other one; but this one’s honest, virtuous, meek, unresentful, highly reliable at work, and deserves to be promoted—so there! Well, all right…but what if sort of…But what if they sort of…mix us up! You can expect anything from him! Ah, Lord God!…And he’ll supplant a man, supplant him, the scoundrel—he’ll supplant a man like an old rag and never consider that a man is not an old rag. Ah, Lord God! What a misfortune!…”

Reasoning and lamenting in this way, Mr. Goliadkin ran on without noticing the way and almost without knowing where. He came to himself on Nevsky Prospect and only because he happened to run into some passerby so adroitly and heartily that the sparks flew. Mr. Goliadkin mumbled an apology without raising his head, and only when the passerby, having growled something none too flattering, had gone on for a considerable distance, did he raise his nose and look to see where he was and how. Looking around and noticing that he was precisely by the restaurant where he had whiled away the time in preparation for the dinner party at Olsufy Ivanovich’s, our hero suddenly felt a pinching and tweaking in the stomach, remembered that he had had no dinner, nor was there any prospect of a dinner party, and therefore, not to lose precious time, he ran up the steps to the restaurant, to snatch something quickly and hurry on if possible without lingering. And though the restaurant was a bit expensive, that small circumstance did not deter Mr. Goliadkin this time; nor was there any question now of being deterred by such trifles. In the brightly lit room, near the counter, on which lay a miscellaneous heap of all that decent people use for snacks, stood a rather dense crowd of guests. The counterman barely had time to pour, serve, take and give back money. Mr. Goliadkin waited his turn and, having waited, modestly reached out for a little fish pie. Having gone into a corner, turned his back on those present and eaten it with appetite, he returned to the counterman, put the plate down, and, knowing the price, took out a silver ten-kopeck piece and placed the coin on the counter, trying to catch the counterman’s eye so as to point out to him that, say, “there’s this coin lying here; one little fish pie” and so on.

“That’ll be one rouble and ten kopecks,” the counterman said through his teeth.

Mr. Goliadkin was properly astounded.

“Are you speaking to me?…I…it seems I took one little pie.”

“You took eleven,” the counterman objected with assurance.

“You…as it seems to me…you seem to be mistaken…Truly, it seems I took one little pie.”

“I was counting; you took eleven. When you take, you have to pay; we don’t give anything for free.”

Mr. Goliadkin was dumbstruck. “What is this, is some kind of witchcraft being worked on me?” he thought. Meanwhile the counterman was waiting for Mr. Goliadkin’s decision; Mr. Goliadkin was surrounded; Mr. Goliadkin had already gone to his pocket to take out a silver rouble, to pay immediately, to be out of harm’s way. “Well, if it’s eleven, it’s eleven,” he thought, turning red as a lobster, “well, what of it if eleven little pies got eaten? Well, a man’s hungry, so he eats eleven little pies; well, let him eat and enjoy it; well, there’s nothing to wonder at and nothing to laugh at…” Suddenly something as if pricked Mr. Goliadkin; he raised his eyes and—at once understood the riddle, understood all the witchcraft; at once all the difficulties were resolved…In the doorway to the next room, almost directly behind the counterman’s back and facing Mr. Goliadkin, in the doorway which, incidentally, till then our hero had taken for a mirror, stood a little fellow—stood he, stood Mr. Goliadkin himself—not the old Mr. Goliadkin, not the hero of our story, but the other Mr. Goliadkin, the new Mr. Goliadkin. The other Mr. Goliadkin was evidently in excellent spirits. He smiled at Mr. Goliadkin-the-first, nodded his head to him, winked his eye, minced slightly with his feet, and looked as if he was all set to efface himself, slip into the next room, and then, perhaps, out the back door, and that would be it…all pursuit would be in vain. In his hand was the last piece of the tenth little pie, which he, right in front of Mr. Goliadkin’s eyes, sent into his mouth, smacking with pleasure. “Supplanted me, the scoundrel!” thought Mr. Goliadkin, flaring up like fire with shame. “He’s not ashamed in public! Can’t they see him? Nobody seems to notice…” Mr. Goliadkin flung down the silver rouble as if it burned his fingers, and, not noticing the significantly impudent smile of the counterman, a smile of triumph and calm strength, tore himself from the crowd, and rushed away without looking back. “Thanks at least that he didn’t compromise a man utterly!” thought Mr. Goliadkin Sr. “Thanks to the brigand, to him and to fate, that it still got settled so well. Only the counterman was rude. But then he was within his rights! He was owed a rouble and ten kopecks, so he was within his rights. Meaning, we don’t give to anyone without money! Though he could have been more polite, the lout!…”

Mr. Goliadkin was saying all this as he went down the stairs to the porch. However, on the last step he stopped as if rooted to the spot and suddenly turned so red from a fit of wounded pride that tears even welled up in his eyes. Having stood for half a minute like a post, he suddenly stamped his foot resolutely, leaped from the porch to the street in a single bound, and, without looking back, breathless, feeling no fatigue, set out for his home on Shestilavochnaya Street. At home, not even taking off his street clothes, contrary to his habit of dressing informally at home, not even taking his pipe first, he immediately sat on the sofa, moved the inkstand towards him, picked up the pen, took out a sheet of writing paper, and began to scribble, in a hand trembling from inner agitation, the following missive:

“Seems good, decent, polite, though not without force and firmness?…Nothing offensive to him here, it seems. Besides, I’m within my rights,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, rereading what he had written.

“Am I not going too far?” thought Mr. Goliadkin. “Won’t it be too much; isn’t it too offensive—this allusion to good tone, for instance?…Well, never mind! I must show firmness of character with him. However, to soften it, maybe I’ll just flatter him and butter him up a little at the end. We’ll see to that.”

“Well, that’s all fine. The deed is done; it’s even gone as far as writing. But who is to blame? He himself is to blame: he himself has driven a man to the necessity of requesting written documents. And I’m within my rights…”

Having reread the letter for a last time, Mr. Goliadkin folded it, sealed it, and summoned Petrushka. Petrushka appeared, as was his custom, with sleepy eyes and extremely angry at something.

“Here, brother, take this letter…understand?”

Petrushka was silent.

“Take it and bring it to the department; there you’ll find the man on duty, Provincial Secretary Vakhrameev. Vakhrameev is on duty today. Do you understand that?”

“I understand.”

“ ‘I understand’! You can’t say: ‘I understand, sir.’ You’ll ask for the clerk Vakhrameev and tell him, say, thus and so, say, my master sends his respects and humbly asks you to consult our department address book, say, for where Titular Councillor Goliadkin lives.”

Petrushka said nothing and, as it seemed to Mr. Goliadkin, smiled.

“Well, so then, Pyotr, you’ll ask for the address and find out where the newly hired clerk Goliadkin lives?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll ask the address, and take the letter to that address. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“If there…where you take this letter—the gentleman to whom you give the letter, this Goliadkin…Why are you laughing, blockhead?”

“Why should I laugh? What’s it to me? It’s nothing, sir. The likes of us oughtn’t to go laughing…”

“Well, so then…if that gentleman asks, say, how’s your master, how is it with him; what, say, is he sort of…well, if he starts asking questions—you keep mum and answer, say, my master’s all right, but he asks, say, for an answer in your own hand. Understand?”

“I understand, sir.”

“Well, then, say, my master, say, tell him, he’s all right, say, and in good health, and is, say, about to go visiting; but he asks you, say, for an answer in writing. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“Well, off you go.”

“So I’ve also got to work on this blockhead! He laughs to himself, and that’s the end. What’s he laughing at? I’ve lived my way into trouble, lived my way into trouble like this! However, maybe it will all turn out for the best…That crook will most likely drag about for a couple of hours, or else disappear somewhere. Can’t send him anywhere. Ah, such trouble!…ah, such trouble’s come over me!…”

Thus, fully aware of his trouble, our hero decided on a passive two-hour role of waiting for Petrushka. For about an hour he paced the room, smoked, then abandoned his pipe and sat down with some book, then lay on the sofa, then picked up his pipe again, then again began to rush about the room. He tried to reason, but was decidedly unable to reason about anything. Finally, the agony of his passive condition reached the ultimate degree, and Mr. Goliadkin decided to take a certain measure. “Petrushka won’t come for another hour,” he thought. “I can give the key to the caretaker, and meanwhile sort of…investigate the affair, investigate it for my own part.” Losing no time and hastening to investigate the affair, Mr. Goliadkin took his hat, left the room, locked the apartment, stopped at the caretaker’s, handed him the keys along with ten kopecks—Mr. Goliadkin had somehow become extraordinarily generous—and set off for where he had to go. Mr. Goliadkin set off on foot, first, for the Izmailovsky Bridge. He spent half an hour walking. On reaching the goal of his journey, he went straight into the courtyard of the familiar house and looked at the windows of State Councillor Berendeev’s apartment. Except for the three windows hung with red curtains, all the rest were dark. “Olsufy Ivanovich must have no guests today,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, “they must all be at home by themselves now.” Having stood in the courtyard for some time, our hero was about to decide on something. But the decision was not destined to take place, evidently. Mr. Goliadkin finished thinking, waved his hand, and went back out to the street. “No, this is not where I needed to come. What am I going to do here?…But now I’d better sort of…and investigate the affair in person.” Having taken such a decision, Mr. Goliadkin set off for his department. The way was not short, moreover it was terribly dirty, and wet snow was pouring down in the thickest flakes. But at the present time, it seems, there were no difficulties for our hero. He did get soaked, true, and also not a little dirty, “but that was just while he was about it, and meanwhile the goal was attained.” And indeed Mr. Goliadkin was already nearing his goal. The dark mass of the enormous official building showed black in the distance before him. “Wait!” he thought, “where am I going and what will I do there? Suppose I learn where he lives; and meanwhile Petrushka is probably already back and has brought me the answer. I’m only wasting my precious time for nothing, I’ve only wasted my time this way. Well, never mind; it can all still be put right. Although, and in fact, shouldn’t I go and see Vakhrameev? Well, but no! I can later…Ehh, there was no need at all to go out! But no, that’s my character! Such an urge, whether it’s needed or not, to be always trying to run ahead somehow…Hm…what time is it? Must be nine already. Petrushka may come and not find me at home. It was sheer stupidity for me to go out…Ah, really, what a chore!”

Having thus sincerely acknowledged that he had committed a sheer folly, our hero ran back home to Shestilavochnaya. He arrived there weary, worn out. He learned from the caretaker that Petrushka had never dreamed of coming. “Well, so! I anticipated that,” our hero thought, “and yet it’s already nine o’clock. What a scoundrel! Eternally drinking somewhere! Lord God! what a day has fallen to my miserable lot!” Reflecting and lamenting like this, Mr. Goliadkin unlocked his apartment, fetched a light, got undressed, smoked a pipe, and, exhausted, weary, broken, hungry, lay down on the sofa to wait for Petrushka. The candle burned dimly, light flickered over the walls…Mr. Goliadkin stared and stared, thought and thought, and finally fell asleep like the dead.

He woke up late. The candle had burned down almost entirely, smoked, and was ready at any moment to go out altogether. Mr. Goliadkin jumped up, roused himself, and remembered everything, decidedly everything. From behind the partition came Petrushka’s dense snoring. Mr. Goliadkin rushed to the window—not a light anywhere. He opened the vent pane—stillness; the city slept like the dead. Meaning it was around two or three o’clock; and so it was: the clock behind the partition strained and struck two. Mr. Goliadkin rushed behind the partition.

Somehow, though after long efforts, he shook Petrushka awake and managed to sit him up in bed. During that time the candle went out completely. About ten minutes passed before Mr. Goliadkin managed to find another candle and light it. During that time Petrushka managed to fall asleep again. “You rogue, you blackguard!” said Mr. Goliadkin, shaking him awake again. “Get up, wake up, will you?” After half an hour of efforts, Mr. Goliadkin managed, however, to rouse his servant completely and drag him from behind the partition. Only then did our hero see that Petrushka was, as they say, dead drunk and barely able to keep on his feet.

“You lout!” cried Mr. Goliadkin. “You brigand! You’ve cut off my head! Lord, where did he unload that letter? Ah, God in heaven, what if it…And why did I write it? As if I had to write it! Fool that I am, galloping away with my vanity! There’s where I got with my vanity! That’s vanity for you, you scoundrel, that’s vanity for you!…Hey, you, what did you do with that letter, you brigand! Who did you give it to?”

“I never gave anybody any letter; and I never had any letter…that’s what!”

Mr. Goliadkin wrung his hands in despair.

“Listen, Pyotr…you listen, you listen to me…”

“I’m listening…”

“Where did you go? Answer…”

“Where did I go…I went to good people! what else!”

“Ah, Lord God! Where did you go first? Did you go to the department?…Listen, Pyotr, maybe you’re drunk?”

“Me drunk? May I die on this spot, not a ti-ti-tittle—so there…”

“No, no, it’s nothing that you’re drunk…I just asked; it’s good that you’re drunk; it’s nothing to me, Petrusha, it’s nothing tome…Maybe you’ve only just forgotten, but do remember it all. Well, now, try to recall, did you go to see the clerk Vakhrameev—did you or didn’t you?”

“I didn’t, and there never was any such clerk. Right now you could…”

“No, no, Pyotr! No, Petrusha, it’s nothing to me. You see, it’s nothing to me…Well, what of it! Well, it’s cold outside, damp, well, so a man has a little drink, well, what of it…I’m not angry. I myself had a drink today, brother…Confess, recollect, brother: did you go to the clerk Vakhrameev?”

“Well, if it’s come to that now, then really and truly—I did go, right now you could…”

“Well, that’s good, Petrusha, it’s good you went. You see, I’m not angry…Well, well,” our hero went on, cajoling his servant still more, patting him on the shoulder and smiling at him, “well, you had a drop, you blackguard…a ten-kopeck drop, eh? you slyboots! Well, never mind; well, you see, I’m not angry…I’m not angry, brother, I’m not angry…”

“No, as you like, but I’m not a slyboots, sir…I just stopped to see some good people, but I’m no slyboots, and I’ve never been a slyboots…”

“Right, you’re not, you’re not, Petrusha! Listen, Pyotr: it’s nothing to me, it’s not to abuse you that I call you a slyboots. I say it kindly to you, in a noble sense. It’s sometimes flattering, Petrusha, to tell a man he’s a stitch, a cunning fellow, that there’s no flies on him, and he won’t let anybody hoodwink him. Some people like it…Well, well, never mind! Well, now tell me, Petrusha, without hiding anything, openly, as to a friend…well, so you went to the clerk Vakhrameev, and he gave you an address?”

“And he gave me an address, he also gave me an address. A good clerk! And your master, he says, is a good man, very good, he says; tell him, he says—I send greetings, he says, to your master, thank him and tell him, he says, that I love him—see, he says, how I respect your master! because, he says, your master, Petrusha, is a good man, he says, and you, he says, are also a good man, Petrusha—so there…”

“Ah, Lord God! And the address, the address, you Judas?” Mr. Goliadkin uttered the last words almost in a whisper.

“And the address…and he gave me the address.”

“He did? Well, where does he live, this Goliadkin, the clerk Goliadkin, the titular councillor?”

“And your Goliadkin, he says, you’ll find on Shestilavochnaya Street. You just go, he says, to Shestilavochnaya, to the right, upstairs, on the fourth floor. There, he says, you’ll find your Goliadkin…”

“You swindler!” shouted our hero, finally losing patience. “You brigand! But that’s me; you’re talking about me. But there’s another Goliadkin; I’m talking about the other one, you swindler!”

“Well, as you like! What’s it to me! Do whatever you like—so there!…”

“But the letter, the letter…”

“What letter? There was never any letter, I never saw any letter.”

“But what did you do with it, you rascal?!”

“I delivered it, I delivered the letter. Greetings, he says, and thanks; a good master, he says, yours is. Greetings, he says, to your master…”

“But who said it? Did Goliadkin say it?”

Petrushka paused for a moment and grinned from ear to ear, looking straight into his master’s eyes.

“Listen, brigand that you are!” Mr. Goliadkin began, breathless, at a loss from rage. “What have you done to me! Tell me, what have you done to me! You’ve cut me down, you villain! You’ve taken my head from my shoulders, you Judas!”

“Well, now, as you like! What’s it to me!” Petrushka said in a resolute tone, retiring behind the partition.

“Come here, come here, you brigand!…”

“And I just won’t go to you now, I won’t go at all. What’s it to me! I’ll go to good people…Good people live honestly, good people live without falseness, and they never come in twos…”

Mr. Goliadkin’s hands and feet turned ice cold, and his breath was taken away…

“Yes, sir,” Petrushka went on, “they never come in twos, they don’t offend God and honest people…”

“You lout, you’re drunk! Sleep now, you brigand! But you’re going to get it tomorrow,” Mr. Goliadkin said in a barely audible voice. As for Petrushka, he muttered something more; then he could be heard putting his full weight on the bed, so that the bed creaked, producing a long yawn, stretching out, and finally snoring the sleep of the innocent, as they say. Mr. Goliadkin was neither dead nor alive. Petrushka’s behavior, his hints, which were quite strange, though remote, at which, therefore, there was no point in being angry, the less so as it was all spoken by a drunk man, and, finally, the whole malignant turn that affairs were taking—all this shook Mr. Goliadkin to his foundations. “And I just had to go reprimanding him in the middle of the night,” our hero said, his whole body trembling with some sort of morbid sensation. “And I just couldn’t help dealing with a drunk man! What sense can you expect from a drunk man? His every word is drivel. What was it, however, that he was hinting at, the brigand! Oh, Lord God! And why did I write all those letters, manslayer that I am! suicide that I am! Just couldn’t keep quiet! Had to go driveling! What else! You’re perishing, you’re like an old rag, and yet, no, there’s still vanity, say, my honor’s suffering, say, you must save your honor! Suicide that I am!”

So spoke Mr. Goliadkin, sitting on his sofa and not daring to stir from fear. Suddenly his eye rested on a certain object that aroused his attention to the highest degree. Fearing that the object which aroused his attention was an illusion, a trick of the imagination, he reached out his hand, with hope, with timidity, with indescribable curiosity…No, it was not a trick! not an illusion! A letter, precisely a letter, certainly a letter, and addressed to him…Mr. Goliadkin took the letter from the table. His heart was pounding terribly. “That swindler must have brought it,” he thought, “and put it here, and then forgotten it; it must have happened that way; that’s precisely how it must have happened…” The letter was from the clerk Vakhrameev, a young colleague and erstwhile friend of Mr. Goliadkin’s. “However, I anticipated it all beforehand,” thought our hero, “and everything that will now be in the letter I’ve anticipated as well…” The letter went as follows:

Having read Vakhrameev’s letter, our hero remained for a long time in a motionless position on his sofa. Some sort of new light was breaking through all this vague and mysterious fog that had surrounded him for two days. Our hero was partly beginning to understand…He tried to get up from the sofa and pace the room once or twice to refresh himself and somehow collect his broken thoughts, to turn them towards a certain subject, and then, having pulled himself together a little, to give mature consideration to his position. But he was just going to get up when at once, in weakness and impotence, he fell back into his former place. “Of course, I anticipated it all beforehand; though what is it he writes and what is the direct meaning of these words? Suppose I know the meaning; but where does it lead? He should say directly: here, say, thus and so, what’s required is this and that, and I’d do it. Such an unpleasant turn this affair is taking! Ah, if only we could get quickly to tomorrow and get quickly to this affair! Now I know what to do. Say, thus and so, I’ll tell them, I agree with your reasoning, I won’t sell my honor, but sort of…perhaps; how, though, did that one, that well-known individual, that unfavorable person, get mixed up in this? And precisely why did he get mixed up in it? Ah, if only tomorrow would come quickly! They’ll disgrace me meanwhile, they’re intriguing, they’re working against me! Above all—I mustn’t lose time, but now, for instance, I should at least write a letter and only let on that, say, this and that, this and that, and I agree to this and that. And tomorrow at first light send it off and go very early…and work against them from the other side and forestall the dear hearts…They’ll disgrace me, that’s just it!”

Mr. Goliadkin drew paper towards him, took the pen, and wrote the following missive in reply to Provincial Secretary Vakhrameev: