My dear Yakov Petrovich!
Either you or me, but two of us is impossible! And therefore I announce to you that your strange, ridiculous, and at the same time impossible wish—to appear my twin and pass yourself off as such—will serve nothing except your total dishonor and defeat. And therefore I beg you, for your own benefit, to step aside and give way to people of true nobility and well-intentioned purposes. In the contrary case, I am prepared to venture even upon the most extreme measures. I lay down my pen and wait…However, I remain ready to be at your service and—to pistols.
Ya. Goliadkin.
Our hero rubbed his hands energetically when he had finished the note. Then, having pulled on his overcoat and put on his hat, he unlocked the door with a spare key and set off for the department. He reached the department, but did not venture to go in; indeed, it was much too late; Mr. Goliadkin’s watch showed half-past two. Suddenly a certain, apparently quite unimportant, circumstance resolved some of Mr. Goliadkin’s doubts: a breathless and red-faced little figure appeared from around the corner of the office building and stealthily, with a ratlike gait, darted onto the porch and then at once into the front hall. This was the scrivener Ostafyev, a man quite well known to Mr. Goliadkin, a somewhat necessary man and ready to do anything for ten kopecks. Knowing Ostafyev’s soft spot and realizing that, after absenting himself on a most urgent necessity, he was now probably still more avid for his ten-kopeck pieces, our hero decided not to be sparing and at once darted onto the porch and then also into the front hall after Ostafyev, called to him, and with a mysterious look invited him to one side, into a nook behind an enormous iron stove. Having led him there, our hero began asking questions.
“Well, so, my friend, how’s things there, sort of…you understand me?”
“Yes, Your Honor, I wish Your Honor good day.”
“Very well, my friend, very well; and I’ll reward you, my dear friend. Well, so you see, how are things, my friend?”
“What are you asking, if you please, sir?” Here Ostafyev slightly covered his accidentally opened mouth with his hand.
“You see, my friend, I sort of…but don’t go thinking anything…Well, so, is Andrei Filippovich here?…”
“He is, sir.”
“And the clerks are here?”
“The clerks also, as they should be, sir.”
“And his excellency also?”
“And his excellency also, sir.” Here once more the scrivener held his hand over his again opened mouth and looked at Mr. Goliadkin somehow curiously and strangely. At least it seemed so to our hero.
“And there’s nothing special, my friend?”
“No, sir, nothing at all, sir.”
“So, my dear friend, there isn’t anything about me, anything just…eh? just so, my friend, you understand?”
“No, sir, I’ve heard nothing so far.” Here the scrivener again held his hand to his mouth and again glanced at Mr. Goliadkin somehow strangely. The thing was that our hero was now trying to penetrate Ostafyev’s physiognomy, to read whether there was not something hidden in it. And indeed there seemed to be something hidden; the thing was that Ostafyev was becoming somehow ruder and dryer, and no longer entered into Mr. Goliadkin’s interests with the same concern as at the beginning of the conversation. “He’s partly within his rights,” thought Mr. Goliadkin. “What am I to him? He may already have gotten something from the other side, and that’s why he absented himself with such urgency. But now I’ll sort of…” Mr. Goliadkin understood that the time for ten-kopeck pieces had come.
“Here you are, my dear friend…”
“I cordially thank Your Honor.”
“I’ll give you more.”
“As you say, Your Honor.”
“I’ll give you more now, at once, and when the matter’s ended, I’ll give you as much again. Understand?”
The scrivener said nothing, stood at attention, and looked fixedly at Mr. Goliadkin.
“Well, tell me now: have you heard anything about me?…”
“It seems that, so far…sort of…nothing so far, sir.” Ostafyev also replied measuredly, like Mr. Goliadkin, preserving a slightly mysterious look, twitching his eyebrows slightly, looking at the ground, trying to fall into the right tone and, in short, trying with all his might to earn what had been promised, because what had been given he considered his own and definitively acquired.
“And nothing’s known?”
“Not so far, sir.”
“But listen…sort of…maybe it will be known?”
“Later on, of course, maybe it will be known, sir.”
“That’s bad!” thought our hero.
“Listen, here’s more for you, my dear.”
“I heartily thank Your Honor.”
“Was Vakhrameev here yesterday?…”
“He was, sir.”
“And wasn’t there somebody else?…Try to recall, brother!”
The scrivener rummaged in his memory for a moment and recalled nothing suitable.
“No, sir, there was nobody else, sir.”
“Hm!” Silence ensued.
“Listen, brother, here’s more for you; tell me everything, all the innermost secrets.”
“Yes, sir.” Ostafyev was now standing there smooth as silk: that was just what Mr. Goliadkin wanted.
“Tell me, brother, what sort of footing is he on now?”
“All right, sir, quite good, sir,” replied the scrivener, staring all eyes at Mr. Goliadkin.
“Good in what sense?”
“In that sense, sir.” Here Ostafyev twitched his eyebrows significantly. However, he was decidedly at a loss and did not know what more to say. “That’s bad!” thought Mr. Goliadkin.
“Haven’t they got something further going with this Vakhrameev?”
“It’s all as before, sir.”
“Think a little.”
“They have, so it’s said, sir.”
“Well, what is it?”
Ostafyev held his hand over his mouth.
“Is there a letter for me from there?”
“Today the caretaker Mikheev went to Vakhrameev’s lodgings, to that German woman of theirs, sir, so I’ll go and ask if you like.”
“Be so kind, brother, for heaven’s sake!…I’m just…Don’t go thinking anything, brother, I’m just…And ask questions, brother, find out if anything’s being prepared there on my account. How does he act? That’s what I need to know; you find that out, and then I’ll thank you well, my dear friend…”
“Yes, sir, Your Honor, and today Ivan Semyonovich sat in your place, sir.”
“Ivan Semyonovich? Ah! yes! Really?”
“Andrei Filippovich told him to sit there, sir…”
“Really? By what chance? Find that out, brother, for heaven’s sake, find that out; find everything out—and I’ll thank you well, my dear; that’s what I need to know…And don’t go thinking anything, brother…”
“Yes, sir, yes, sir, I’ll come down here at once, sir. But, Your Honor, won’t you be going in today?”
“No, my friend; it’s just so, just so, I’ve just come to have a look, my dear friend, and then I’ll thank you well, my dear.”
“Yes, sir.” The scrivener quickly and zealously ran up the stairs, and Mr. Goliadkin was left alone.
“That’s bad,” he thought. “Eh, it’s bad, bad! Eh, our little affair…it’s in such a bad way now! What can it all mean? What precisely can certain of this drunkard’s hints mean, for instance, and whose trick is it? Ah! now I know whose trick it is! Here’s the trick. They must have found out, and so they sat him there…However, what is it—they sat him there? It was Andrei Filippovich who sat him there, this Ivan Semyonovich; why, however, did he sit him there and with precisely what aim did he sit him? Probably they found out…It’s Vakhrameev’s work, that is, not Vakhrameev, he’s stupid as a pine log, this Vakhrameev; it’s all of them working for him, and they set the rogue on for the same purpose; and she complained, the one-eyed G
erman! I’ve always suspected that this whole intrigue had something behind it, and that all this old-womanish gossip surely had something to it; I said as much to Krestyan Ivanovich, that, say, they’d sworn to cut a man down, speaking in a moral sense, so they seized on Karolina Ivanovna. No, masters are at work here, you can see! Here, my good sir, there’s a master’s hand at work, not Vakhrameev. It has already been said that Vakhrameev is stupid, but this…now I know who is working for them all here: it’s the rogue, the impostor! That’s the one thing he clings to, which partly explains his success in high society. And indeed, I wish I knew what footing he’s on now…what is he to them? Only why did they bring in Ivan Semyonovich? Why the devil did they need Ivan Semyonovich? As if they couldn’t have come up with somebody else? However, no matter who they sat there, it would all be the same; I only know that I’ve long suspected this Ivan Semyonovich, I’ve long noticed that he’s such a nasty old codger, such a vile one—they say he lends money on interest and takes interest like a Jew. It’s all that bear’s doing. The bear got mixed up in this whole circumstance. It started that way. It started by the Izmailovsky Bridge; that’s how it started…” Here Mr. Goliadkin winced as if he had bitten into a lemon, probably recalling something highly unpleasant. “Well, never mind, though!” he thought. “And I only go on about my own thing. Why doesn’t Ostafyev come? He must have gotten stuck or been stopped somehow. It’s partly good that I intrigue this way and undermine them from my side. Ostafyev only has to be given ten kopecks, and he sort of…and he’s on my side. Only here’s the thing: is he really on my side? Maybe they also, on their side…and in complicity with him, on their side, are conducting an intrigue. He has the look of a brigand, the crook, a sheer brigand! In secret, the rogue! ‘No, there’s nothing,’ he says, ‘and, say, I heartily thank Your Honor.’ You brigand!”
Noise was heard…Mr. Goliadkin shrank and jumped behind the stove. Someone came down the stairs and went outside. “Who could be leaving like that now?” our hero thought to himself. A moment later someone’s footsteps were heard again…Here Mr. Goliadkin could not help himself and stuck the smallest tip of his nose out from behind his breast-work—stuck it out and pulled it back at once, as though someone had pricked his nose with a needle. This time you know who was going by—that is, the rogue, the intriguer and debaucher—walking as usual with his mean, rapid little step, mincing and prancing on his feet as if he was about to kick somebody. “The scoundrel!” our hero said to himself. However, Mr. Goliadkin could not fail to notice that under the scoundrel’s arm was an enormous green portfolio belonging to his excellency. “He’s on a special mission again,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, turning red and shrinking still more from vexation. No sooner did Mr. Goliadkin Jr. flash past Mr. Goliadkin Sr., without noticing him at all, than for a third time someone’s footsteps were heard, and this time Mr. Goliadkin guessed that the steps were the scrivener’s. Indeed, the slicked-down little figure of a scrivener peeked behind the stove; the little figure, however, was not Ostafyev but another scrivener named Scriverenko. This amazed Mr. Goliadkin. “Why is he mixing others into the secret?” thought our hero. “What barbarians! Nothing’s sacred to them!”
“Well, so, my friend?” he said, addressing Scriverenko. “Who are you coming from, my friend?…”
“It’s this, sir, on your little affair, sir. So far there’s no news from anyone, sir. But if there is, we’ll let you know, sir.”
“And Ostafyev?…”
“He really couldn’t come, Your Honor. His excellency has already made the rounds of the department twice, and I’ve got no time now.”
“Thank you, my dear, thank you…Only tell me…”
“By God, I’ve got no time, sir…We’re asked for every moment, sir…But you please go on standing here, sir, so that if there’s anything concerning your little affair, sir, we’ll let you know, sir…”
“No, my friend, you tell me…”
“Excuse me, sir; I’ve got no time, sir,” Scriverenko said, trying to tear free of Mr. Goliadkin, who had seized his coat skirt, “really, it’s impossible, sir. You kindly go on standing here, and we’ll let you know.”
“One moment, one moment, my friend! one moment, my dear friend! Here’s what now: here’s a letter, my friend; and I’ll thank you well, my dear.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Try to hand it to Mr. Goliadkin, my dear.”
“To Goliadkin?”
“Yes, my friend, to Mr. Goliadkin.”
“Very well, sir; once I’ve finished up, I’ll take it, sir. And you stand here meanwhile. Nobody’ll see you here…”
“No, my friend, don’t go thinking I…I’m not standing here so that people won’t see me. I’ll no longer be here, my friend…I’ll bein the lane. There’sa coffeehouse; I’ll be waiting there, and if anything happens, you inform me about it all, understand?”
“Very well, sir. Only let me go; I understand…”
“And I’ll thank you well, my dear!” Mr. Goliadkin called after the finally freed Scriverenko…“The rogue seems to have grown ruder towards the end,” thought our hero, stealthily coming out from behind the stove. “There’s another hitch here. That’s clear…First it was both this and that…However, he really was in a hurry; maybe there was a lot to do there. And his excellency made the rounds of the office twice…What might be the reason for that?…Oof! well, it’s nothing! maybe it’s nothing, however, but now we’re going to see…”
Here Mr. Goliadkin opened the door and was about to step out, when suddenly, at that same instant, his excellency’s carriage rumbled up to the porch. Before Mr. Goliadkin managed to recover, the door of the carriage opened from inside and the gentleman sitting in it jumped out onto the porch. The newcomer was none other than the same Mr. Goliadkin Jr., who had absented himself ten minutes earlier. Mr. Goliadkin Sr. remembered that the director’s apartment was two steps away. “He’s on a special mission,” our hero thought to himself. Meanwhile Mr. Goliadkin Jr., taking a fat green portfolio and some other papers from the carriage, and, finally, giving some order to the coachman, opened the door, almost shoving Mr. Goliadkin Sr. with it, and, deliberately ignoring him, and therefore acting this way in order to spite him, started at a trot up the department stairs. “Bad!” thought Mr. Goliadkin. “Eh, our little affair is doing poorly! Look at him, Lord God!” Our hero stood motionless for half a minute; finally, he made up his mind. Not thinking long, though feeling a strong fluttering in his heart and a trembling in all his limbs, he ran after his friend up the stairs. “Ah! let come what may; what is it to me? I have nothing to do with it,” he thought, taking off his hat, overcoat, and galoshes in the hall.
When Mr. Goliadkin entered his department, it was already fully dark.{26} Neither Andrei Filippovich nor Anton Antonovich was in the room. They were both in the director’s office with their reports; the director, as rumor had it, was hastening in his turn to go to his superior. Owing to this circumstance, and also because there was darkness mixed into it and the business day was almost over, some of the clerks, mostly young men, were occupied at the moment our hero entered with some sort of idleness, clustering together, talking, discussing, laughing, and some of the youngest, that is, of the most rankless rank, on the sly and under cover of the general noise, had even begun a game of pitch-and-toss in the corner by the window. Being a polite man and sensing at the present time some particular need to acquire and to find, Mr. Goliadkin approached some of those with whom he was on better terms, to wish them a good afternoon, and so on. But his colleagues responded to Mr. Goliadkin’s greetings somehow strangely. He was unpleasantly struck by a sort of general coldness, dryness, even, one might say, a sort of sternness in the reception. No one shook hands with him. Some simply said “Hello” and walked off; others just nodded, some simply turned away, showing that they had not noticed anything, and, finally, certain—and this was the most offensive thing for Mr. Goliadkin—certain of the lowest ranking young men, boys who, as Mr. Goliadkin correctl
y observed about them, knew only how to play pitch-and-toss on occasion and to mooch about somewhere—gradually surrounded Mr. Goliadkin, forming a cluster around him and almost blocking his way out. They all gazed at him with some insulting curiosity.
It was a bad sign. Mr. Goliadkin felt that and for his part sensibly prepared not to notice anything. Suddenly one completely unexpected circumstance quite, as they say, finished off and annihilated Mr. Goliadkin.
In the bunch of young colleagues surrounding him, suddenly and, as if on purpose, at the most anguished moment for him, Mr. Goliadkin Jr. appeared, cheerful as always, with a little smile as always, also fidgety as always—in short, a prankster, a leaper, a smoocher, a tittler, light of tongue and foot, as always, as before, just as yesterday, for instance, at a very unpleasant moment for Mr. Goliadkin Sr. Grinning, fidgeting, mincing, with a little smile that as much as said “Good evening” to them all, he wormed his way into the bunch of clerks, shook hands with one, patted another on the shoulder, embraced a third slightly, explained to a fourth precisely on what occasion his excellency had employed him, where he had gone, what he had done, and what he had brought with him; gave the fifth, probably his best friend, a smacking kiss right on the lips—in short, it all happened exactly as in Mr. Goliadkin Sr.’s dream. Having had his fill of leaping about, having finished with each of them in his own way, having wound them all into his favor, whether he needed it or not, having smooched with them all to his heart’s content, Mr. Goliadkin Jr. suddenly, and probably by mistake, having so far failed to notice his old friend, offered his hand to Mr. Goliadkin Sr. Probably also by mistake, though, incidentally, he had managed to notice the ignoble Mr. Goliadkin Jr. perfectly well, our hero at once eagerly seized the so unexpectedly proffered hand and shook it in a most firm, friendly way, with some strange, quite unexpected inner impulse, with a sort of tearful feeling. Whether our hero had been deceived by his indecent enemy’s first move, or had merely found nothing better to do, or had sensed and realized deep in his soul the whole extent of his defenselessness, it is hard to say. The fact was that Mr. Goliadkin Sr., of sound mind, by his own will, and before witnesses, solemnly shook hands with the one he called his mortal enemy. But what was the amazement, the fury, and the rage, what was the horror and shame of Mr. Goliadkin Sr., when his adversary, his mortal enemy, the ignoble Mr. Goliadkin Jr., noticing the mistake of the innocent and persecuted man whom he had perfidiously deceived, without any shame, without feeling, without compassion and conscience, suddenly, with insufferable impudence and rudeness, tore his hand from Mr. Goliadkin Sr.’s hand; what’s more, he shook his hand as if he had dirtied it in something quite unsavory; what’s more, he spat to the side, accompanying it all with a most insulting gesture; what’s more, he took out his handkerchief and right there, in the most outrageous fashion, wiped all the fingers that had rested for a moment in Mr. Goliadkin Sr.’s hand. Acting in this way, Mr. Goliadkin Jr. deliberately looked around, as was his mean custom, making sure that everyone had seen his conduct, looked everyone in the eye, and obviously tried to instill in everyone all that was most unfavorable regarding Mr. Goliadkin. It seemed that the conduct of the disgusting Mr. Goliadkin Jr. aroused general indignation in the surrounding clerks; even the flighty young men showed their displeasure. Grumbling and talk arose around. The general stir could not have missed the ears of Mr. Goliadkin Sr.; but suddenly the timely arrival of a joke that boiled up, among other things, on the lips of Mr. Goliadkin Jr., dashed and destroyed our hero’s last hopes and again tilted the balance in favor of his mortal and useless enemy.
The Double Page 13
