The Double — Chapter 4

That day the birthday of Klara Olsufyevna, the only daughter of the civil

councillor, Berendyev, at one time Mr. Golyadkin’s benefactor and patron, was

being celebrated by a brilliant and sumptuous dinner-party, such as had not been

seen for many a long day within the walls of the flats in the neighbourhood of Ismailovsky Bridge — a dinner more like some Balthazar’s feast, with a suggestion

of something Babylonian in its brilliant luxury and style, with Veuve-Clicquot

champagne, with oysters and fruit from Eliseyev’s and Milyutin’s, with all sorts of

fatted calves, and all grades of the government service. This festive day was to conclude with a brilliant ball, a small birthday ball, but yet brilliant in its taste, its distinction and its style. Of course, I am willing to admit that similar balls do happen sometimes, though rarely. Such balls, more like family rejoicings than

balls, can only be given in such houses as that of the civil councillor, Berendyev. I

will say more: I even doubt if such balls could be given in the houses of all civil councillors. Oh, if I were a poet! such as Homer or Pushkin, I mean, of course; with any lesser talent one would not venture — I should certainly have painted all

that glorious day for you, oh, my readers, with a free brush and brilliant colours!

Yes, I should begin my poem with my dinner, I should lay special stress on that striking and solemn moment when the first goblet was raised to the honour of the

queen of the fete. I should describe to you the guests plunged in a reverent silence

and expectation, as eloquent as the rhetoric of Demosthenes; I should describe for

you, then, how Andrey Filippovitch, having as the eldest of the guests some right

to take precedence, adorned with his grey hairs and the orders that well befit grey

hairs, got up from his seat and raised above his head the congratulatory glass of

sparkling wine — brought from a distant kingdom to celebrate such occasions and

more like heavenly nectar than plain wine. I would portray for you the guests and

the happy parents raising their glasses, too, after Andrey Filippovitch, and

fastening upon him eyes full of expectation. I would describe for you how the same

Andrey Filippovitch, so often mentioned, after dropping a tear in his glass,

delivered his congratulations and good wishes, proposed the toast and drank the

health . . . but I confess, I freely confess, that I could not do justice to the solemn

moment when the queen of the fete, Klara Olsufyevna, blushing like a rose in spring, with the glow of bliss and of modesty, was so overcome by her feelings that

she sank into the arms of her tender mamma; how that tender mamma shed tears,

and how the father, Olsufy Ivanovitch, a hale old man and a privy councillor, who had lost the use of his legs in his long years of service and been rewarded by destiny for his devotion with investments, a house, some small estates, and a beautiful daughter, sobbed like a little child and announced through his tears that

his Excellency was a benevolent man. I could not, I positively could not, describe

the enthusiasm that followed that moment in every heart, an enthusiasm clearly evinced in the conduct of a youthful register clerk (though at that moment he was

more like a civil councillor than a register clerk), who was moved to tears, too, as

he listened to Andrey Filippovitch. In his turn, too, Andrey Filippovitch was in that solemn moment quite unlike a collegiate councillor and the head of an office

in the department — yes, he was something else . . . what, exactly, I do not know,

but not a collegiate councillor. He was more exalted! Finally . . . Oh, why do I not

possess the secret of lofty, powerful language, of the sublime style, to describe these grand and edifying moments of human life, which seem created expressly to

prove that virtue sometimes triumphs over ingratitude, free-thinking, vice and

envy! I will say nothing, but in silence — which will be better than any eloquence

— I will point to that fortunate youth, just entering on his twenty-sixth spring — to

Vladimir Semyonovitch, Andrey Filippovitch’s nephew, who in his turn now rose

from his seat, who in his turn proposed a toast, and upon whom were fastened the

tearful eyes of the parents, the proud eyes of Andrey Filippovitch, the modest eyes

of the queen of the fete, the solemn eyes of the guests and even the decorously envious eyes of some of the young man’s youthful colleagues. I will say nothing of

that, though I cannot refrain from observing that everything in that young man —

who was, indeed, speaking in a complimentary sense, more like an elderly than a

young man — everything, from his blooming cheeks to his assessorial rank seemed

almost to proclaim aloud the lofty pinnacle a man can attain through morality and

good principles! I will not describe how Anton Antonovitch Syetotochkin, a little

old man as grey as a badger, the head clerk of a department, who was a colleague

of Andrey Filippovitch’s and had once been also of Olsufy Ivanovitch’s, and was an

old friend of the family and Klara Olsufyevna’s godfather, in his turn proposed a

toast, crowed like a cock, and cracked many little jokes; how by this extremely proper breach of propriety, if one may use such an expression, he made the whole

company laugh till they cried, and how Klara Olsufyevna, at her parents’ bidding,

rewarded him for his jocularity and politeness with a kiss. I will only say that the

guests, who must have felt like kinsfolk and brothers after such a dinner, at last

rose from the table, and the elderly and more solid guests, after a brief interval spent in friendly conversation, interspersed with some candid, though, of course,

very polite and proper observations, went decorously into the next room and,

without losing valuable time, promptly divided themselves up into parties and, full

of the sense of their own dignity, installed themselves at tables covered with green

baize. Meanwhile, the ladies established in the drawing-room suddenly became

very affable and began talking about dress-materials. And the venerable host, who

had lost the use of his legs in the service of loyalty and religion, and had been rewarded with all the blessings we have enumerated above, began walking about

on crutches among his guests, supported by Vladimir Semyonovitch and Klara

Olsufyevna, and he, too, suddenly becoming extremely affable, decided to

improvise a modest little dance, regardless of expense; to that end a nimble youth

(the one who was more like a civil councillor than a youth) was despatched to fetch musicians, and musicians to the number of eleven arrived, and exactly at half-past eight struck up the inviting strains of a French quadrille, followed by various other dances. . . . It is needless to say that my pen is too weak, dull, and

spiritless to describe the dance that owed its inspiration to the genial hospitality of

the grey-headed host. And how, I ask, can the modest chronicler of Mr.

Golyadkin’s adventures, extremely interesting as they are in their own way, how can I depict the choice and rare mingling of beauty, brilliance, style, gaiety, polite

solidity and solid politeness, sportiveness, joy, all the mirth and playfulness of these wives and daughters of petty officials, more like fairies than ladies — in a complimentary sense — with their lily shoulders and their rosy faces, their

ethereal figures, their playfully agile homeopathic — to use the exalted language appropriate — little feet? How can I describe to you, finally, the gallant officials, their partners — gay and solid youths, steady, gleeful, decorously vague, smoking a

pipe in the intervals between the dancing in a little green room apart, or not smoking a pipe in the intervals between the dances, every one of them with a highly respectable surname and rank in the service — all steeped in a sense of the

elegant and a sense of their own dignity; almost all speaking French to their partners, or if Russian, using only the most well-bred expressions, compliments and profound observations, and only in the smoking — room permitting

themselves some genial lapses from this high tone, some phrases of cordial and friendly brevity, such, for instance, as: “‘Pon my soul, Petka, you rake, you did kick

me off that polka in style,” or, “I say, Vasya, you dog, you did give your partner a

time of it.” For all this, as I’ve already had the honour of explaining, oh, my readers! my pen fails me, and therefore I am dumb. Let us rather return to Mr.

Golyadkin, the true and only hero of my very truthful tale.

The fact is that he found himself now in a very strange position, to the least of

it. He was here also, gentlemen — that is, not at the dance, but almost at the dance; he was “all right, though; he could take care of himself,” yet at that moment

he was a little astray; he was standing at that moment, strange to say — on the landing of the back stairs to Olsufy Ivanovitch’s flat. But it was “all right” his standing there; he was “quite well.” He was standing in a corner, huddled in a place which was not very warm, though it was dark, partly hidden by a huge

cupboard and an old screen, in the midst of rubbish, litter, and odds and ends of

all sorts, concealing himself for the time being and watching the course of

proceedings as a disinterested spectator. He was only looking on now, gentlemen;

he, too, gentlemen, might go in, of course . . . why should he not go in? He had only to take one step and he would go in, and would go in very adroitly. Just now,

though he had been standing nearly three hours between the cupboard and the

screen in the midst of the rubbish, litter and odds and ends of all sorts, he was only quoting, in his own justification, a memorable phrase of the French minister,

Villesle: “All things come in time to him who has the strength to wait.” Mr.

Golyadkin had read this sentence in some book on quite a different subject, but now very aptly recalled it. The phrase, to begin with, was exceedingly appropriate

to his present position, and, indeed, why should it not occur to the mind of a man

who had been waiting for almost three hours in the cold and the dark in

expectation of a happy ending to his adventures. After quoting very appropriately

the phrase of the French minister, Villesle, Mr. Golyadkin immediately thought of

the Turkish Vizier, Martsimiris, as well as of the beautiful Mergravine Luise, whose story he had read also in some book. Then it occurred to his mind that the

Jesuits made it their rule that any means were justified if only the end were attained. Fortifying himself somewhat with this historical fact, Mr. Golyadkin said

to himself, What were the Jesuits? The Jesuits were every one of them very great

fools; that he was better than any of them; that if only the refreshment-room would be empty for one minute (the door of the refreshment-room opened

straight into the passage to the back stairs, where Mr. Golyadkin was in hiding now), he would, in spite of all the Jesuits in the world, go straight in, first from the

refreshment-room into the tea-room, then into the room where they were now

playing cards, and then straight into the hall where they were now dancing the polka, and he would go in — he would slip through — and that would be all, no one

would notice him; and once there he would know what to do.

Well, so this is the position in which we find the hero of our perfectly true story, though, indeed, it is difficult to explain what was passing in him at that moment. The fact is that he had made his way to the back of the stairs and to the

passage, on the ground that, as he said, “why shouldn’t he? and everyone did go

that way?”; but he had not ventured to penetrate further, evidently he did not dare

to do so . . . “not because there was anything he did not dare, but just because he

did not care to, because he preferred to be in hiding”; so here he was, waiting now

for a chance to slip in, and he had been waiting for it two hours and a half. “Why

not wait? Villesle himself had waited. But what had Villesle to do with it?” thought

Mr. Golyadkin: “How does Villesle come in? But how am I to . . . to go and walk

in? . . . Ech, you dummy!” said Mr. Golyadkin, pinching his benumbed cheek with

his benumbed fingers; “you silly fool, you silly old Golyadkin — silly fool of a surname!” …

But these compliments paid to himself were only by the way and without any

apparent aim. Now he was on the point of pushing forward and slipping in; the refreshment-room was empty and no one was in sight. Mr. Golyadkin saw all this

through the little window; in two steps he was at the door and had already opened

it. “Should he go in or not? Come, should he or not? I’ll go in . . . why not? to the

bold all ways lie open!” Reassuring himself in this way, our hero suddenly and quite unexpectedly retreated behind the screen. “No,” he thought. “Ah, now,

somebody’s coming in? Yes, they’ve come in; why did I dawdle when there were no

people about? Even so, shall I go and slip in? . . . No, how slip in when a man has

such a temperament! Fie, what a low tendency! I’m as scared as a hen! Being scared is our special line, that’s the fact of the matter! To be abject on every occasion is our line: no need to ask us about that. Just stand here like a post and

that’s all! At home I should be having a cup of tea now . . . It would be pleasant,

too, to have a cup of tea. If I come in later Petrushka ‘ll grumble, maybe. Shall I go

home? Damnation take all this! I’ll go and that’ll be the end of it!” Reflecting on

his position in this way, Mr. Golyadkin dashed forward as though some one had touched a spring in him; in two steps he found himself in the refreshment-room,

flung off his overcoat, took off his hat, hurriedly thrust these things into a corner,

straightened himself and smoothed himself down; then …then he moved on to the

tea-room, and from the tea-room darted into the next room, slipped almost unnoticed between the card-players, who were at the tip-top of excitement, then

. . . Mr. Golyadkin forgot everything that was going on about him, and went straight as an arrow into the drawing room.

As luck would have it they were not dancing. The ladies were promenading up

and down the room in picturesque groups. The gentlemen were standing about in

twos and threes or flitting about the room engaging partners. Mr. Golyadkin

noticed nothing of this. He saw only Klara Olsufyevna, near her Andrey

Filippovitch, then Vladimir Semyonovitch, two or three officers, and, finally, two

or three other young men who were also very interesting and, as any one could see

at once, were either very promising or had actually done something. . . . He saw some one else too. Or, rather, he saw nobody and looked at nobody . . . but, moved

by the same spring which had sent him dashing into the midst of a ball to which

he had not been invited, he moved forward, and then forwarder and forwarder. On

the way he jostled against a councillor and trod on his foot, and incidentally stepped on a very venerable old lady’s dress and tore it a little, pushed against a

servant with a tray and then ran against somebody else, and, not noticing all this,

passing further and further forward, he suddenly found himself facing Klara

Olsufyevna. There is no doubt whatever that he would, with the utmost delight, without winking an eyelid, have sunk through the earth at that moment; but what

has once been done cannot be recalled . . . can never be recalled. What was he to

do? “If I fail I don’t lose heart, if I succeed I persevere.” Mr. Golyadkin was, of course, not “one to intrigue,” and “not accomplished in the art of polishing the floor with his boots.” . . . And so, indeed, it proved. Besides, the Jesuits had some

hand in it too . . . though Mr. Golyadkin had no thoughts to spare for them now!

All the moving, noisy, laughing groups were suddenly hushed as though at a signal

and, little by little, crowded round Mr. Golyadkin. He, however, seemed to hear nothing, to see nothing, he could not look . . . he could not possibly look at anything; he kept his eyes on the floor and so stood, giving himself his word of honour, in passing, to shoot himself one way or another that night. Making this vow, Mr. Golyadkin inwardly said to himself, “Here goes!” and to his own great astonishment began unexpectedly to speak.

He began with congratulations and polite wishes. The congratulations went

off well, but over the good wishes our hero stammered. He felt that if he

stammered all would be lost at once. And so it turned out — he stammered and

floundered . . . floundering, he blushed crimson; blushing, he was overcome with confusion. In his confusion he raised his eyes; raising his eyes he looked about him; looking about him — he almost swooned . . . Every one stood still, every one

was silent, a little nearer there was laughter. Mr. Golyadkin fastened a humble, imploring look on Andrey Filippovitch. Andrey Filippovitch. Andrey Filippovitch

responded with such a look that if our hero had not been utterly crushed already

he certainly would have been crushed a second time — that is, if that were

possible. The silence lasted long.

“This is rather concerned with my domestic circumstances and my private

life, Andrey Filippovitch,” our hero, half-dead, articulated in a scarcely audible voice; “it is not an official incident, Andrey Filippovitch …”

“For shame, sir, for shame!” Andrey Filippovitch pronounced in a half

whisper, with an indescribable air of indignation; he pronounced these words and,

giving Klara Olsufyevna his arm, he turned away from Mr. Golyadkin.

“I’ve nothing to be ashamed of, Andrey Filippovitch,” answered Mr.

Golyadkin, also in a whisper, turning his miserable eyes about him, trying

helplessly to discover in the amazed crowd something on which he could gain a footing and retrieve his social position.

“Why, it’s all right, it’s nothing, gentlemen! Why, what’s the matter? Why, it

might happen to any one,” whispered Mr. Golyadkin, moving a little away and

trying to escape from the crowd surrounding him.

They made way for him. Our hero passed through two rows of inquisitive and

wondering spectators. Fate drew him on. He felt himself, that fate was leading him

on. He would have given a great deal, of course, for a chance to be back in the passage by the back stairs, without having committed a breach of propriety; but as

that was utterly impossible he began trying to creep away into a corner and to stand there — modestly, decorously, apart, without interfering with any one,

without attracting especial attention, but at the same time to win the favourable notice of his host and the company. At the same time Mr. Golyadkin felt as though

the ground were giving way under him, as though he were staggering, falling. At

last he made his way to a corner and stood in it, like an unconcerned, rather indifferent spectator, leaning his arms on the backs of two chairs, taking complete

possession of them in that way, and trying, as far as he could, to glance confidently

at Olsufy Ivanovitch’s guests, grouped about him. Standing nearest him was an

officer, a tall and handsome fellow, beside whom Golyadkin felt himself an insect.

“These two chairs, lieutenant, are intended, one for Klara Olsufyevna, and the

other for Princess Tchevtchehanov; I’m taking care of them for them,” said Mr.

Golyadkin breathlessly, turning his imploring eyes on the officer. The lieutenant said nothing, but turned away with a murderous smile. Checked in this direction,

our hero was about to try his luck in another quarter, and directly addressed an important councillor with a cross of great distinction on his breast. But the councillor looked him up and down with such a frigid stare that Mr. Golyadkin felt

distinctly as though a whole bucketful of cold water had been thrown over him. He

subsided into silence. He made up his mind that it was better to keep quiet, not to

open his lips, and to show that he was “all right,” that he was “like every one else,”

and that his position, as far as he could see, was quite a proper one. With this object he rivetted his gaze on the lining of his coat, then raised his eyes and fixed

them upon a very respectable-looking gentleman. “That gentleman has a wig on,”

thought Mr. Golyadkin; “and if he takes off that wig he will be bald, his head will

be as bare as the palm of my hand.” Having made this important discovery, Mr.

Golyadkin thought of the Arab Emirs, whose heads are left bare and shaven if they

take off the green turbans they wear as a sign of their descent from the prophet Mahomet. Then, probably from some special connection of ideas with the Turks,

he thought of Turkish slippers and at once, apropos of that, recalled the fact that

Andrey Filippovitch was wearing boots, and that his boots were more like slippers

than boots. It was evident that Mr. Golyadkin had become to some extent

reconciled to his position. “What if that chandelier,” flashed through Mr.

Golyadkin’s mind, “were to come down from the ceiling and fall upon the

company. I should rush at once to save Klara Olsufyevna. ‘Save her!’ I should cry.

‘Don’t be alarmed, madam, it’s of no consequence, I will rescue you, I.’ Then …” At

that moment Mr. Golyadkin looked about in search of Klara Olsufyevna, and saw

Gerasimitch, Olsufy Ivanovitch’s old butler. Gerasimitch, with a most anxious and

solemnly official air, was making straight for him. Mr. Golyadkin started and

frowned from an unaccountable but most disagreeable sensation; he looked about

him mechanically; it occurred to his mind that if only he could somehow creep off

somewhere, unobserved, on the sly — simply disappear, that it, behave as though

he had done nothing at all, as though the matter did not concern him in the least!

. . . But before our hero could make up his mind to do anything, Gerasimitch was

standing before him.

“Do you see, Gerasimitch,” said our hero, with a little smile, addressing Gerasimitch; “you go and tell them — do you see the candle there in the

chandelier, Gerasimitch — it will be falling down directly: so, you know, you must

tell them to see to it; it really will fall down, Gerasimitch . . . .”

“The candle? No, the candle’s standing straight; but somebody is asking for

you, sir.”

“Who is asking for me, Gerasimitch?”

“I really can’t say, sir, who it is. A man with a message. ‘Is Yakov Petrovitch

Golyadkin here?’ says he. ‘Then call him out,’ says he, ‘on very urgent and

important business …’ you see.”

“No, Gerasimitch, you are making a mistake; in that you are making a

mistake, Gerasimitch.”

“I doubt it, sir.”

“No, Gerasimitch, it isn’t doubtful; there’s nothing doubtful about it,

Gerasimitch. Nobody’s asking for me, but I’m quite at home here — that is, in my

right place, Gerasimitch.”

Mr. Golyadkin took breath and looked about him. Yes! every one in the room,

all had their eyes fixed upon him, and were listening in a sort of solemn

expectation. The men had crowded a little nearer and were all attention. A little further away the ladies were whispering together. The master of the house made

his appearance at no great distance from Mr. Golyadkin, and though it was

impossible to detect from his expression that he, too, was taking a close and direct

interest in Mr. Golyadkin’s position, for everything was being done with delicacy,

yet, nevertheless, it all made our hero feel that the decisive moment had come for

him. Mr. Golyadkin saw clearly that the time had come for a old stroke, the chance

of putting his enemies to shame. Mr. Golyadkin was in great agitation. He was aware of a sort of inspiration and, in a quivering and impressive voice, he began

again, addressing the waiting butler —

“No, my dear fellow, no one’s calling for me. You are mistaken. I will say

more: you were mistaken this morning too, when you assured me. . . . dared to assure me, I say (he raised his voice), “that Olsufy Ivanovitch, who has been my benefactor for as long as I can remember and has, in a sense, been a father to me,

was shutting his door upon me at the moment of solemn family rejoicing for his

paternal heart.” (Mr. Golyadkin looked about him complacently, but with deep feeling. A tear glittered on his eyelash.) “I repeat, my friend,” our hero concluded,

“you were mistaken, you were cruelly and unpardonably mistaken . . . .”

The moment was a solemn one. Mr. Golyadkin felt that the effect was quite

certain. He stood with modestly downcast eyes, expecting Olsufy Ivanovitch to

embrace him. Excitement and perplexity were apparent in the guests, even the

inflexible and terrible Gerasimitch faltered over the words “I doubt it …” when suddenly the ruthless orchestra, apropos of nothing, struck up a polka. All was lost, all was scattered to the winds. Mr. Golyadkin started; Gerasimitch stepped back; everything in the room began undulating like the sea; and Vladimir

Semyonovitch led the dance with Klara Olsufyevna, while the handsome

lieutenant followed with Princess Tchevtchehanov. Onlookers, curious and

delighted, squeezed in to watch them dancing the polka — an interesting,

fashionable new dance which every one was crazy over. Mr. Golyadkin was, for the

time, forgotten. But suddenly all were thrown into excitement, confusion and

bustle; the music ceased . . . a strange incident had occurred. Tired out with the dance, and almost breathless with fatigue, Klara Olsufyevna, with glowing cheeks

and heaving bosom, sank into an armchair, completely exhausted . . . All hearts turned to the fascinating creature, all vied with one another in complimenting her

and thanking her for the pleasure conferred on them, — all at once there stood before her Mr. Golyadkin. He was pale, extremely perturbed; he, too, seemed

completely exhausted, he could scarcely move. He was smiling for some reason, he

stretched out his hand imploringly. Klara Olsufyevna was so taken aback that she

had not time to withdraw hers and mechanically got up at his invitation. Mr.

Golyadkin lurched forward, first once, then a second time, then lifted his leg, then

made a scrape, then gave a sort of stamp, then stumbled . . . he, too, wanted to dance with Klara Olsufyevna. Klara Olsufyevna uttered a shriek; every one rushed

to release her hand from Mr. Golyadkin’s, and in a moment our hero was carried

almost ten paces away by the rush of the crowd. A circle formed round him too.

Two old ladies, whom he had almost knocked down in his retreat raised a great shrieking and outcry. The confusion was awful; all were asking questions, every one was shouting, every one was finding fault. The orchestra was silent. Our hero

whirled round in his circle and mechanically, with a semblance of a smile,

muttered something to himself, such as, “Why not?” and “that the polka, so far, at

least, as he could see, was a new and very interesting dance, invented for the

diversion of the ladies . . . but that since things had taken this turn, he was ready to consent.” But Mr. Golyadkin’s consent no one apparently thought of asking.

Our hero was suddenly aware that some one’s hand was laid on his arm, that

another hand was pressed against his back, that he was with peculiar solicitude being guided in a certain direction. At last he noticed that he was going straight to

the door. Mr. Golyadkin wanted to say something, to do something. . . . But no, he

no longer wanted to do anything. He only mechanically kept laughing in answer.

At last he was aware that they were putting on his greatcoat, that his hat was thrust over his eyes; finally he felt that he was in the entry on the stairs in the dark

and cold. At last he stumbled, he felt that he was falling down a precipice; he tried

to cry out — and suddenly he found himself in the courtyard. The air blew fresh on

him, he stood still for a minute; at that very instant, the strains reached him of the

orchestra striking up again. Mr. Golyadkin suddenly recalled it all; it seemed to him that all his flagging energies came back to him again. He had been standing as

though rivetted to the spot, but now he started off and rushed away headlong, anywhere, into the air, into freedom, wherever chance might take him.