The Double

CHAPTER XI

THE BREATH LABORED in Mr. Goliadkin’s chest; he flew as on wings after his quickly retreating adversary. He felt in himself the presence of a terrible energy. However, despite the presence of a terrible energy, Mr. Goliadkin could boldly trust that at the present moment even a simple mosquito, had it been able to live at such a season in Petersburg, could quite easily have knocked him down with its wing. He also felt that he was completely limp and feeble, that he was borne up by some completely peculiar and extraneous power, that he was not walking by himself, that, on the contrary, his legs were giving way under him and refused to serve. However, all that might work out for the better. “For better or worse,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, almost suffocating from running so fast, “but there’s not the slightest doubt that the affair is lost; that I’m totally lost is known, determined, decided, and signed.” Despite all that, it was as if our hero had risen from the dead, as if he had endured battle, as if he had snatched away the victory, when he managed to seize the overcoat of his adversary, who had already hoisted one leg into the droshky he had just hired. “My dear sir! my dear sir!” he shouted finally at the ignoble Mr. Goliadkin Jr., caught at last. “My dear sir, I hope that you…”

“No, please don’t hope for anything,” Mr. Goliadkin’s unfeeling adversary replied evasively, one foot standing on one step of the droshky and with the other straining with all his might to get to the other side of the vehicle, waving it vainly in the air, trying to keep his balance and at the same time trying with all his might to detach his overcoat from Mr. Goliadkin Sr., who for his part attached himself to it with all the means granted him by nature.

“Yakov Petrovich! just ten minutes…”

“Excuse me, I have no time, sir.”

“You yourself must agree, Yakov Petrovich…please, Yakov Petrovich…for God’s sake, Yakov Petrovich…thus and so—to have a talk…on a bold footing…One little second, Yakov Petrovich!…”

“My dear heart, I have no time,” Mr. Goliadkin’s falsely noble adversary replied with discourteous familiarity, but in the guise of heartfelt kindness, “some other time, believe me, from fullness of soul and purity of heart; but now—really, it’s impossible.”

“Scoundrel!” thought our hero.

“Yakov Petrovich!” he cried in anguish. “I have never been your enemy. Wicked people have described me unfairly…For my part, I’m ready…Yakov Petrovich, if you wish, you and I, Yakov Petrovich, shall we go in now?…And there, from purity of heart, as you just said correctly, and in a direct, noble tongue…into this coffeehouse: then everything will explain itself—that’s what, Yakov Petrovich! Then certainly everything will explain itself…”

“Into the coffeehouse? Very well, sir. I have nothing against it, let’s go to the coffeehouse, only on one condition, my joy, on the single condition—that there everything will explain itself. Say, thus and so, my sweet,” said Mr. Goliadkin Jr., stepping down from the droshky and shamelessly patting our hero on the shoulder, “my good chum; for you, Yakov Petrovich, I’m ready to go down a little lane (as you, Yakov Petrovich, were pleased to observe correctly once upon a time). What a slyboots, really, he does whatever he wants with a man!” Mr. Goliadkin’s false friend went on, fidgeting and twining around him with a slight smile.

Off the main streets, the coffeehouse which the two Mr. Goliadkins entered was at that moment totally empty. A rather fat German woman appeared at the counter as soon as she heard the ringing of the little bell. Mr. Goliadkin and his unworthy adversary passed into the second room, where a puffy-faced boy with cropped hair was fussing with a heap of chips by the stove, trying to revive the dying fire. At the demand of Mr. Goliadkin Jr., hot chocolate was served.

“She’s a tasty morsel, that one,” said Mr. Goliadkin Jr., winking slyly at Mr. Goliadkin Sr.

Our hero blushed and said nothing.

“Ah, yes, I forgot, forgive me. I know your taste. We, sir, relish thin German women; you and I, you truthful soul, say, we relish thin German women, though, incidentally, not lacking in certain pleasant qualities; we rent their apartments, we seduce their virtue; for bier-zuppe, for milch-zuppe, we dedicate our hearts to them and sign various papers—that’s what we do, you Faublas, you traitor, you!”

Mr. Goliadkin Jr. said all this, making thereby a completely useless though villainously cunning allusion to a certain person of the female sex, twining around Mr. Goliadkin, smiling at him in simulated courtesy, making a false display, thereby, of his affability and joy at their meeting. But noticing that Mr. Goliadkin Sr. was by no means so stupid and deprived of education and good-toned manners as to believe him at once, the ignoble man decided to change his tactics and conduct the affair on an open footing. Straightaway, having uttered his abomination, the false Mr. Goliadkin concluded by patting the reliable Mr. Goliadkin on the shoulder with outrageous shamelessness and familiarity, and, not content with that, began flirting with him in a manner completely improper to good-toned society—namely, he was about to repeat the former abomination, that is, despite the resistance and the slight outcries of the indignant Mr. Goliadkin Sr., to pinch his cheek. Seeing such depravity, our hero seethed but said nothing…only for a time, however.

“That’s how my enemies talk,” he finally answered in a trembling voice, sensibly restraining himself. At the same time our hero turned to look anxiously at the door. The thing was that Mr. Goliadkin Jr. was apparently in an excellent state of mind and ready to start all kinds of tricks not admissible in a public place and, generally speaking, not permitted by the laws of society, and chiefly of high-toned society.

“Ah, well, in that case, as you wish,” Mr. Goliadkin Jr. retorted gravely to the thought of Mr. Goliadkin Sr., placing his empty cup, which he had drunk with indecent greediness, on the table. “Well, sir, anyhow there’s no point in prolonging…Well, sir, how are you getting along now, Yakov Petrovich?”

“I can say only one thing to you, Yakov Petrovich,” our hero replied coolly and with dignity, “I have never been your enemy.”

“Hm…well, and Petrushka? How now! It’s Petrushka, I believe?—why, yes! So, how is he? Well? Same as before?”

“He’s also the same as before, Yakov Petrovich,” replied the slightly astonished Mr. Goliadkin Sr. “I don’t know, Yakov Petrovich…for my part…for the noble, for the sincere part, Yakov Petrovich, you must agree, Yakov Petrovich…”

“Yes, sir. But you yourself know, Yakov Petrovich,” Mr. Goliadkin Jr. replied in a soft and insinuating voice, thus falsely making himself out to be a sad, dignified man, filled with repentance and regret, “you yourself know, our times are hard…I defer to you, Yakov Petrovich; you’re an intelligent man and will judge fairly,” Mr. Goliadkin Jr. put in, basely flattering Mr. Goliadkin Sr. “Life’s not a game—you know that yourself, Yakov Petrovich,” Mr. Goliadkin Jr. concluded meaningfully, thus pretending to be an intelligent and learned man who could reason about lofty subjects.

“For my part, Yakov Petrovich,” our hero replied with animation, “for my part, scornful of roundabout paths and speaking boldly and sincerely, speaking a direct, noble language, and putting the whole affair on a noble level, I will tell you, I can openly and nobly assert, Yakov Petrovich, that I am completely clear and that, as you yourself know, a mutual error—anything can happen—the world’s judgment, the opinion of the servile crowd…I’m speaking sincerely, Yakov Petrovich, anything can happen. I will also say, Yakov Petrovich, if one judges in this way, if one looks at the affair from a noble and lofty point of view, I will say boldly, without false shame, Yakov Petrovich, it would even be pleasant for me to reveal that I was mistaken, it would even be pleasant for me to admit it. You yourself know, you’re an intelligent man, and moreover a noble one. Without shame, without false shame, I am ready to admit it…” our hero concluded with dignity and nobility.

“Fate, destiny, Yakov Petrovich!…But let’s leave all that,” Mr. Goliadkin Jr. said with a sigh. “Better let’s use the brief moments of our encounter in more useful and pleasant conversation, as befits two colleagues…Really, I somehow haven’t managed to exchange two words with you all this time…I’m not to blame for it, Yakov Petrovich…”

“Neither am I,” our hero warmly interrupted, “neither am I! My heart tells me, Yakov Petrovich, that I am not to blame for all this. Let’s blame destiny for it, Yakov Petrovich,” Mr. Goliadkin Sr. added in a completely conciliatory tone. His voice gradually began to weaken and tremble.

“Well, so? How’s your health generally?” the wayward one asked in a sweet voice.

“I have a slight cough,” our hero replied still more sweetly.

“Take care of yourself. There are these infections going around, it’s easy to catch a quinsy, and, I confess to you, I’m beginning to wrap myself in flannel.”

“Indeed, Yakov Petrovich, it is easy to catch a quinsy, sir…Yakov Petrovich!” our hero said after a meek pause. “Yakov Petrovich! I see that I was mistaken…I have a fond memory of those happy minutes we managed to pass under my poor but, I dare say, hospitable roof…”

“However, that is not what you wrote in your letter,” the perfectly fair (perfectly fair, however, solely in this respect) Mr. Goliadkin Jr. said partly in reproach.

“Yakov Petrovich! I was mistaken…I now see clearly that I was also mistaken in that unfortunate letter of mine. Yakov Petrovich, I am ashamed to look at you, Yakov Petrovich, you won’t believe me…Give me that letter so that I can tear it up before your eyes, Yakov Petrovich, or if that is absolutely impossible, I implore you to read it the other way round—quite the other way round, that is, with a deliberately friendly intention, giving the contrary sense to all the words of my letter. I was mistaken. Forgive me, Yakov Petrovich, I was totally…I was grievously mistaken, Yakov Petrovich.”

“You were saying?” Mr. Goliadkin Sr.’s perfidious friend asked rather absentmindedly and indifferently.

“I was saying that I was totally mistaken, Yakov Petrovich, and that, for my part, without any false shame, I…”

“Ah, well, good! It’s very good that you were mistaken,” Mr. Goliadkin Jr. replied rudely.

“I even had the idea, Yakov Petrovich,” our candid hero added in a noble fashion, totally oblivious of the terrible perfidy of his false friend, “I even had the idea that, say, here two perfect likenesses have been created…”

“Ah, so that’s your idea!…”

Here Mr. Goliadkin Jr., known for his uselessness, got up and seized his hat. Still failing to notice the deceit, Mr. Goliadkin Sr. also got up, smiling simple-heartedly and nobly to his pseudo-friend, trying, in his innocence, to be gentle, to encourage him, and thus to strike up a new friendship with him…

“Good-bye, Your Excellency!” Mr. Goliadkin Jr. suddenly cried out. Our hero shuddered, noticing something even bacchic in his enemy’s face and, solely to be rid of him, thrust two fingers of his hand into the hand the immoral man held out to him; but here…here the shamelessness of Mr. Goliadkin Jr. went beyond all degree. Having seized the two fingers of Mr. Goliadkin Sr.’s hand and pressed them first, the unworthy man straightaway, before Mr. Goliadkin’s eyes, ventured to repeat his shameless morning joke. The measure of human patience was exhausted…

He was already putting the handkerchief with which he had wiped his fingers into his pocket when Mr. Goliadkin Sr. came to his senses and rushed after him into the next room, where, as was his nasty habit, his implacable enemy had at once hastened to slip away. Cool as a cucumber, he was standing at the counter eating little pies and, like a virtuous man, quite calmly paying court to the German pastry cook. “Impossible in front of ladies,” thought our hero, and he also went up to the counter, beside himself with agitation.

“Not a bad-looking wench, in fact! What do you think?” Mr. Goliadkin Jr. began his indecent escapades anew, probably counting on Mr. Goliadkin’s endless patience. The fat German woman, for her part, looked at both her customers with senseless, tinny eyes, obviously not understanding Russian and smiling affably. Our hero flared up like fire at the words of the shameless Mr. Goliadkin Jr. and, losing all control, finally hurled himself at him with the obvious intention of tearing him to pieces and thus having done with him definitively, but Mr. Goliadkin Jr., as was his mean custom, was already far away: he had taken to his heels, he was already on the porch. It goes without saying, of course, that after the first momentary stupe-faction, which naturally came over Mr. Goliadkin Sr., he recovered and rushed headlong after his offender, who was already getting into a waiting cab, whose driver was obviously in full complicity with him. But at that same moment the fat German woman, seeing the flight of the two customers, shrieked and rang the bell with all her might. Our hero turned back almost on the wing, threw her money for himself and the shameless, unpaying man, not asking for change, and, despite this delay, still managed—though, again, only on the wing—to catch up with his adversary. Clinging to the droshky’s mudguard with all the means granted him by nature, our hero went racing down the street for a time, trying to scramble into the carriage, which Mr. Goliadkin Jr. defended with all his might. Meanwhile the cabby, with whip and reins and foot and words, urged on his broken-down nag, who quite unexpectedly went into a gallop, taking the bit in her teeth and kicking up her hind legs, as was her nasty habit, at every third stride. Finally our hero somehow managed to hoist himself into the droshky, face to his adversary, back leaning against the cabby, his knees to the shameless fellow’s knees, and with his right hand clutching as best he could the rather shabby fur collar of his depraved and most bitter enemy’s overcoat…

The enemies raced on and for a time were silent. Our hero could barely catch his breath; the road was very bad, and he was jolted at every step, in danger of breaking his neck. On top of that, his bitter adversary still would not admit defeat and tried to push his enemy off into the mud. To complete all the unpleasantnesses, the weather was most terrible. Snow poured down in big flakes and tried all it could, for its part, to get under the flung-open overcoat of the real Mr. Goliadkin. It was murky all around and impossible to see. It was hard to tell where and down what streets they were racing…It seemed to Mr. Goliadkin that something familiar was happening to him. At one point he tried to recall whether he had had any presentiment the day before…in a dream, for instance…Finally, his anguish grew to the ultimate degree of its agony. Leaning his full weight against his merciless adversary, he was about to cry out. But the cry died on his lips…There was a moment when Mr. Goliadkin forgot everything and decided that all this was quite negligible and that it had been done just like that, somehow, in an inexplicable fashion, and to protest on this occasion would be a superfluous and completely wasted business…But suddenly, and almost at the moment when our hero was coming to this conclusion, some careless jolt changed the whole sense of the affair. Mr. Goliadkin tumbled off the droshky like a sack of flour and rolled away somewhere, admitting quite correctly in the moment of his fall that he had really and highly inappropriately lost his temper. Jumping to his feet, finally, he saw that they had arrived somewhere; the droshky was standing in the middle of someone’s yard, and our hero noticed at first glance that it was the yard of the house where Olsufy Ivanovich lived. At that same moment he noticed that his companion was already making his way to the porch and probably to Olsufy Ivanovich’s. In his indescribable anguish, he was about to rush in pursuit of his adversary, but, fortunately for him, he had sense enough to think better of it in time. Not forgetting to pay the cabby, Mr. Goliadkin rushed out to the street and ran as fast as he could wherever his legs would carry him. Snow poured down in big flakes as before; as before it was murky, damp, and dark. Our hero did not walk but flew, knocking down everyone in his way—peasants, their women, children, and bouncing off of women, peasants, and children in his turn. Around him and behind him he heard frightened talk, shrieks, cries…But it seemed that Mr. Goliadkin was oblivious and did not want to pay any attention to anything…He came to his senses, however, by the Semyonovsky Bridge, and then only because he happened somehow clumsily to brush against and knock down two peasant women with the wares they were carrying, and to fall down himself along with them. “Never mind that,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, “all this may very well still work out for the best”—and he straightaway went to his pocket, wishing to get off by paying a silver rouble for the spilled gingerbreads, apples, peas, and various other things. Suddenly a new light dawned on Mr. Goliadkin; in his pocket he felt the letter that the scrivener had handed to him in the morning. Remembering among other things that there was a tavern he knew not far away, he ran to the tavern, sat down without wasting a moment at a little table lit by a tallow candle, and, not paying attention to anything, not listening to the waiter who came to take his order, he broke the seal and began to read what follows below, struck by it to the uttermost.

Having read the letter, our hero remained as if dumbfounded for several minutes. In terrible anguish, in terrible agitation, pale as a sheet, the letter in his hands, he paced several times about the room; to complete his disastrous position, our hero failed to notice that he was at the present moment the object of the exclusive attention of all those in the room. Probably the disorder of his clothes, his unrestrained agitation, his pacing, or, rather, running about, gesticulating with both hands, maybe a few mysterious words uttered to the wind and in oblivion—probably all that recommended Mr. Goliadkin quite poorly to the opinion of all the customers; even the waiter himself began to glance at him suspiciously. Coming to his senses, our hero noticed that he was standing in the middle of the room and staring in an almost indecent, impolite fashion at a little old man of quite venerable appearance, who, after having dinner and praying to God before an icon, sat down again and, for his part, fixed his gaze on Mr. Goliadkin. Our hero looked around vaguely and noticed that everyone, decidedly everyone, was looking at him with a most sinister and suspicious air. Suddenly a retired officer with a red collar loudly asked for The Police Gazette. Mr. Goliadkin gave a start and blushed: somehow by chance he looked down and saw that his clothes were so indecent that they would have been impossible even in his own home, to say nothing of a public place. His boots, his trousers, and his entire left side were covered with mud; the trouser strap on his right foot had been torn off, and his tailcoat was even ripped in many places. In inexhaustible anguish, our hero went over to the table at which he had been reading and saw a waiter approaching him with an odd and brazenly insistent expression on his face. Totally bewildered and deflated, our hero began to examine the table at which he was standing. There were dishes on the table left after someone’s dinner, a dirty napkin lay there, and a just-used knife, fork, and spoon. “Who was having dinner?” thought our hero. “Could it have been me? Anything’s possible! I had dinner and didn’t notice it: what am I to do?” Raising his eyes, Mr. Goliadkin again saw the waiter standing beside him, about to say something to him.

“How much do I owe, brother?” our hero asked in a trembling voice.

Loud laughter arose around Mr. Goliadkin; the waiter himself grinned. Mr. Goliadkin realized that in this, too, he had flunked and done something awfully stupid. Having realized it all, he became so embarrassed that he had to go to his pocket for a handkerchief, probably so as to do something and not stand there like that; but to his own and everyone else’s indescribable amazement, instead of a handkerchief, he took out a vial with some medication prescribed by Krestyan Ivanovich four days earlier. “Medications from the same apothecary,” raced through Mr. Goliadkin’s head…Suddenly he gave a start and almost cried out in terror. New light was shed…A dark, disgustingly reddish liquid shone with a sinister gleam before Mr. Goliadkin’s eyes. The vial fell from his hand and broke at once. Our hero cried out and sprang two steps back from the spilled liquid…he trembled all over, and sweat broke out on his temples and forehead. “That means my life’s in danger!” Meanwhile there was movement, commotion in the room; everyone surrounded Mr. Goliadkin, everyone talked to Mr. Goliadkin, some even seized Mr. Goliadkin. But our hero was mute and motionless, saw nothing, heard nothing, felt nothing…Finally, as if tearing himself away, he rushed out of the tavern, shoved aside each and all of those who tried to hold him back, fell almost unconscious into the first droshky that happened along, and flew home.

In the front hall of his apartment he met Mikheev, the department caretaker, with an official envelope in his hand. “I know, my friend, I know everything,” our exhausted hero answered in a weak, melancholy voice, “it’s official…” The envelope indeed contained an order for Mr. Goliadkin, signed by Andrei Filippovich, to hand over the cases in his charge to Ivan Semyonovich. Having taken the envelope and given the caretaker a ten-kopeck piece, Mr. Goliadkin went into his apartment and saw Petrushka preparing and gathering into a heap all his trash and rubbish, all his things, obviously intending to leave Mr. Goliadkin and go over from him to Karolina Ivanovna, who had lured him away to replace her Evstafy.