The Double — Chapter 7

He recovered himself a little on the staircase as he went up to his flat.

“Oh, I’m a sheep’s head,” he railed at himself inwardly. “Where am I taking

him? I am thrusting my head into the noose. What will Petrushka think, seeing us

together? What will the scoundrel dare to imagine now? He’s suspicious …”

But it was too late to regret it. Mr. Golyadkin knocked at the door; it was opened, and Petrushka began taking off the visitor’s coat as well as his master’s.

Mr. Golyadkin looked askance, just stealing a glance at Petrushka, trying to read

his countenance and divine what he was thinking. But to his intense astonishment

he saw that his servant showed no trace of surprise, but seemed, on the contrary,

to be expecting something of the sort. Of course he did not look morose, as it was;

he kept his eyes turned away and looked as though he would like to fall upon somebody.

“Hasn’t somebody bewitched them all today?” thought our hero. “Some devil

must have got round them. There certainly must be something peculiar in the

whole lot of them today. Damn it all, what a worry it is!”

Such were Mr. Golyadkin’s thoughts and reflections as he led his visitor into

his room and politely asked him to sit down. The visitor appeared to be greatly embarrassed, he was very shy, and humbly watched every movement his host

made, caught his glance, and seemed trying to divine his thoughts from them.

There was a downtrodden, crushed, scared look about all his gestures, so that — if

the comparison may be allowed — he was at that moment rather like the man who,

having lost his clothes, is dressed up in somebody else’s: the sleeves work up to the

elbows, the waist is almost up to his neck, and he keeps every minute pulling down

the short waistcoat; he wriggles sideways and turns away, tries to hide himself, or

peeps into every face, and listens whether people are talking of his position, laughing at him or putting him to shame — and he is crimson with shame and overwhelmed with confusion and wounded vanity. . . . Mr. Golyadkin put down his

hat in the window, and carelessly sent it flying to the floor. The visitor darted at

once to pick it up, brushed off the dust, and carefully put it back, while he laid his

own on the floor near a chair, on the edge of which he meekly seated himself. This

little circumstance did something to open Mr. Golyadkin’s eyes; he realized that

the man was in great straits, and so did not put himself out for his visitor as he had done at first, very properly leaving all that to the man himself. The visitor, for

his part, did nothing either; whether he was shy, a little ashamed, or from

politeness was waiting for his host to begin is not certain and would be difficult to

determine. At that moment Petrushka came in; he stood still in the doorway, and

fixed his eyes in the direction furthest from where the visitor and his master were

seated.

“Shall I bring in dinner for two?” he said carelessly, in a husky voice.

“I— I don’t know . . . you . . . yes, bring dinner for two, my boy.”

Petrushka went out. Mr. Golyadkin glanced at his visitor. The latter

crimsoned to his ears. Mr. Golyadkin was a kind-hearted man, and so in the

kindness of his heart he at once elaborated a theory.

“The fellow’s hard up,” he thought. “Yes, and in his situation only one day.

Most likely he’s suffered in his time. Maybe his good clothes are all that he has, and nothing to get him a dinner. Ah, poor fellow, how crushed he seems! But no

matter; in a way it’s better so. . . . Excuse me,” began Mr. Golyadkin, “allow me to

ask what I may call you.”

“I . . . I . . . I’m Yakov Petrovitch,” his visitor almost whispered, as though conscience-stricken and ashamed, as though apologizing for being called Yakov

Petrovitch too.

“Yakov Petrovitch!” repeated our visitor, unable to conceal his confusion.

“Yes, just so. . . . The same name as yours,” responded the meek visitor,

venturing to smile and speak a little jocosely. But at once he drew back, assuming

a very serious air, though a little disconcerted, noticing that his host was in no joking mood.

“You . . . allow me to ask you, to what am I indebted for the honour …?”

“Knowing your generosity and your benevolence,” interposed the visitor in a

rapid but timid voice, half rising from his seat, “I have ventured to appeal to you

and to beg for your . . . acquaintance and protection …” he concluded, choosing his

phrases with difficulty and trying to select words not too flattering or servile, that

he might not compromise his dignity and not so bold as to suggest an unseemly equality. In fact, one may say the visitor behaved like a gentlemanly beggar with a

darned waistcoat, with an honourable passport in his pocket, who has not yet learnt by practice to hold out his hand properly for alms.

“You perplex me,” answered Mr. Golyadkin, gazing round at himself, his walls

and his visitor. “In what could I . . . that is, I mean, in what way could I be of service to you?”

“I felt drawn to you, Yakov Petrovitch, at first sight, and, graciously forgive me, I built my hopes Yakov Petrovitch. I . . . I’m in a desperate plight here, Yakov

Petrovitch; I’m poor, I’ve had a great deal of trouble, Yakov Petrovitch, and have

only recently come here. Learning that you, with your innate goodness and

excellence of heart, are of the same name …”

Mr. Golyadkin frowned.

“Of the same name as myself and a native of the same district, I made up my

mind to appeal to you, and to make known to you my difficult position.”

“Very good, very good; I really don’t know what to say,” Mr. Golyadkin

responded in an embarrassed voice. “We’ll have a talk after dinner …”

The visitor bowed; dinner was brought in. Petrushka laid the table, and Mr.

Golyadkin and his visitor proceeded to partake of it. The dinner did not last long,

for they were both in a hurry, the host because he felt ill at ease, and was, besides,

ashamed that the dinner was a poor one — he was partly ashamed because he

wanted to give the visitor a good meal, and partly because he wanted to show him

he did not live like a beggar. The visitor, on his side too, was in terrible confusion

and extremely embarrassed. When he had finished the piece of bread he had

taken, he was afraid to put out his hand to take another piece, was ashamed to help himself to the best morsels, and was continually assuring his host that he was

not at all hungry, that the dinner was excellent, that he was absolutely satisfied with it, and should not forget it to his dying day. When the meal was over Mr.

Golyadkin lighted his pipe, and offered a second, which was brought in, to his visitor. They sat facing each other, and the visitor began telling his adventures.

Mr. Golyadkin junior’s story lasted for three or four hours. His history was, however, composed of the most trivial and wretched, if one may say so, incidents.

It dealt with details of service in some lawcourt in the provinces, of prosecutors and presidents, of some department intrigues, of the depravity of some

registration clerks, of an inspector, of the sudden appointment of a new chief in

the department, of how the second Mr. Golyadkin had suffered quite without any fault on his part; of his aged aunt, Pelegea Semyonovna; of how, through various

intrigues on the part of his enemies, he had lost his situation, and had come to Petersburg on foot; of the harassing and wretched time he had spent here in

Petersburg, how for a long time he had tried in vain to get a job, had spent all his

money, had nothing left, had been living almost in the street, lived on a crust of bread and washed it down with his tears, slept on the bare floor, and finally how

some good Christian had exerted himself on his behalf, had given him an

introduction, and had nobly got him into a new berth. Mr. Golyadkin’s visitor shed

tears as he told his story, and wiped his eyes with a blue-check handkerchief that

looked like oilcloth. He ended by making a clean breast of it to Mr. Golyadkin, and

confessing that he was not only for the time without means of subsistence and money for a decent lodging, but had not even the wherewithal to fit himself out properly, so that he had, he said in conclusion, been able to get together enough

for a pair of wretched boots, and that he had had to hire a uniform for the time.

Mr. Golyadkin was melted; he was genuinely touched. Even though his

visitor’s story was the paltriest story, every word of it was like heavenly manna to

his heart. The fact was that Mr. Golyadkin was beginning to forget his last

misgivings, to surrender his soul to freedom and rejoicing, and at last mentally dubbed himself a fool. It was all so natural! And what a thing to break his heart over, what a thing to be so distressed about! To be sure there was, there really was,

one ticklish circumstance — but, after all, it was not a misfortune; it could be no

disgrace to a man, it could not cast a slur on his honour or ruin his career, if he

were innocent, since nature herself was mixed up in it. Moreover, the visitor begged for protection, wept, railed at destiny, seemed such an artless, pitiful, insignificant person, with no craft or malice about him, and he seemed now to be

ashamed himself, though perhaps on different grounds, of the strange

resemblance of his countenance with that of Mr. Golyadkin’s. his behaviour was absolutely unimpeachable; his one desire was to please his host, and he looked as

a man looks who feels conscience-stricken and to blame in regard to some one else. If any doubtful point were touched upon, for instance, the visitor at once agreed with Mr. Golyadkin’s opinion. If by mistake he advanced an opinion in

opposition to Mr. Golyadkin’s and afterwards noticed that he had made a slip, he

immediately corrected his mistake, explained himself and made it clear that he meant the same thing as his host, that he thought as he did and took the same

view of everything as he did. In fact, the visitor made every possible effort to

“make up to” Mr. Golyadkin, so that the latter made up his mind at last that his

visitor must be a very amiable person in every way. Meanwhile, tea was brought

in; it was nearly nine o’clock. Mr. Golyadkin felt in a very good-humour, grew lively and skittish, let himself go a little, and finally plunged into a most animated

and interesting conversation with his visitor. In his festive moments Mr.

Golyadkin was fond of telling interesting anecdotes. So now he told the visitor a great deal about Petersburg, about its entertainments and attractions, about the theatre, the clubs, about Brulov’s picture, and about the two Englishmen who

came from England to Petersburg on purpose to look at the iron railing of the Summer Garden, and returned at once when they had seen it; about the office; about Olsufy Ivanovitch and Andrey Filippovitch; about the way that Russia was

progressing, was hour by hour progressing towards a state of perfection, so that

“Arts and letters flourish here today”;

about an anecdote he had lately read in the Northern Bee concerning a boa-

constrictor in India of immense strength; about Baron Brambeus, and so on. In short, Mr. Golyadkin was quite happy, first, because his mind was at rest,

secondly, because, so far from being afraid of his enemies, he was quite prepared

now to challenge them all to mortal combat; thirdly, because he was now in the role of patron and was doing a good deed. Yet he was conscious at the bottom of

his heart that he was not perfectly happy, that there was still a hidden worm gnawing at his heart, though it was only a tiny one. He was extremely worried by

the thought of the previous evening at Olsufy Ivanovitch’s. He would have given a

great deal now for nothing to have happened of what took place then.

“It’s no matter, though!” our hero decided at last, and he firmly resolved in his heart to behave well in future and never to be guilty of such pranks again. As

Mr. Golyadkin was now completely worked up, and had suddenly become almost

blissful, the fancy took him to have a jovial time. Rum was brought in by

Petrushka, and punch was prepared. The visitor and his host drained a glass each,

and then a second. The visitor appeared even more amiable than before, and gave

more than one proof of his frankness and charming character; he entered keenly

into Mr. Golyadkin’s joy, seemed only to rejoice in his rejoicing, and to look upon

him as his one and only benefactor. Taking up a pen and a sheet of paper, he asked

Golyadkin not to look at what he was going to write, but afterwards showed his

host what he had written. It turned out to be a verse of four lines, written with a good deal of feeling, in excellent language and handwriting, and evidently was the

composition of the amiable visitor himself. the lines were as follows —

“If thou forget me,

I shall not forget thee;

Though all things may be,

Do not thou forget me.”

With tears in his eyes Mr. Golyadkin embraced his companion, and, completely

overcome by his feelings, he began to initiate his friend into some of his own secrets and private affairs, Andrey Filippovitch and Klara Olsufyevna being

prominent in his remarks.

“Well, you may be sure we shall get on together, Yakov Petrovitch,” said our

hero to his visitor. “You and I will take to each other like fish to the water, Yakov

Petrovitch; we shall be like brothers; we’ll be cunning, my dear fellow, we’ll work

together; we’ll get up an intrigue, too, to pay them out. To pay them out we’ll get

up an intrigue too. And don’t you trust any of them. I know you, Yakov Petrovitch,

and I understand your character; you’ll tell them everything straight out, you know, you’re a guileless soul! You must hold aloof from them all, my boy.”

His companion entirely agreed with him, thanked Mr. Golyadkin, and he, too,

grew tearful at last.

“Do you know, Yasha,” Mr. Golyadkin went on in a shaking voice, weak with

emotion, “you must stay with me for a time, or stay with me for ever. We shall get

on together. What do you say, brother, eh? And don’t you worry or repine because

there’s such a strange circumstance about us now; it’s a sin to repine, brother; it’s

nature! And Mother Nature is liberal with her gifts, so there, brother Yasha! It’s from love for you that I speak, from brotherly love. But we’ll be cunning, Yasha;

we’ll lay a mine, too, and we’ll make them laugh out the other side of their mouths.”

They reached their third and fourth glasses of punch at last, and then Mr.

Golyadkin began to be aware of two sensations: the one that he was

extraordinarily happy, and the other that he could not stand on his legs. The guest

was, of course, invited to stay the night. A bed was somehow made up on two chairs. Mr. Golyadkin junior declared that under a friend’s roof the bare floor would be a soft bed, that for his part he could sleep anywhere, humbly and

gratefully; that he was in paradise now, that he had been through a great deal of trouble and grief in his time; he had seen ups and downs, had all sorts of things to

put up with, and — who could tell what the future would be? — maybe he would

have still more to put up with. Mr. Golyadkin senior protested against this, and began to maintain that one must put one’s faith in God. His guest entirely agreed,

observing that there was, of course, no one like God. At this point Mr. Golyadkin

senior observed that in certain respects the Turks were right in calling upon God

even in their sleep. Then, though disagreeing with certain learned professors in the slanders thy had promulgated against the Turkish prophet Mahomet and

recognizing him as a great politician in his own line, Mr. Golyadkin passed to a very interesting description of an Algerian barber’s shop which he had read in a book of miscellanies. The friends laughed heartily at the simplicity of the Turks, but paid due tribute to their fanaticism, which they ascribed to opium. . . . At last

the guest began undressing, and thinking in the kindness of his heart that very likely he hadn’t even a decent shirt, Mr. Golyadkin went behind the screen to avoid embarrassing a man who had suffered enough, and partly to reassure

himself as far as possible about Petrushka, to sound him, to cheer him up if he could, to be kind to the fellow so that every one might be happy and that

everything might be pleasant all round. It must be remarked that Petrushka still rather bothered Mr. Golyadkin.

“You go to bed now, Pyotr,” Mr. Golyadkin said blandly, going into his

servant’s domain; “you go to bed now and wake me up at eight o’clock. Do you understand Petrushka?”

Mr. Golyadkin spoke with exceptional softness and friendliness. But

Petrushka remained mute. He was busy making his bed, and did not even turn

round to face his master, which he ought to have done out of simple respect.

“Did you hear what I said, Pyotr?” Mr. Golyadkin went on. “You go to bed

now and wake me tomorrow at eight o’clock; do you understand?”

“Why, I know that; what’s the use of telling me?” Petrushka grumbled to

himself.

“Well, that’s right, Petrushka; I only mention it that you might be happy and

at rest. Now we are all happy, so I want you, too, to be happy and satisfied. And

now I wish you good-night. Sleep, Petrushka, sleep; we all have to work . . . Don’t

think anything amiss, my man …” Mr. Golyadkin began, but stopped short. “Isn’t

this too much?” he thought. “Haven’t I gone too far? That’s how it always is; I always overdo things.”

Our hero felt much dissatisfied with himself as he left Petrushka. He was,

besides, rather wounded by Petrushka’s grumpiness and rudeness. “One jests with

the rascal, his master does him too much honour, and the rascal does not feel it,”

thought Mr. Golyadkin. “But there, that’s the nasty way of all that sort of people!”

Somewhat shaken, he went back to his room, and, seeing that his guest had

settled himself for the night, he sat down on the edge of his bed for a minute.

“Come, you must own, Yasha,” he began in a whisper, wagging his head,

“you’re a rascal, you know; what a way you’ve treated me! You see, you’ve got my

name, do you know that?” he went on, jesting in a rather familiar way with his visitor. At last, saying a friendly good-night to him, Mr. Golyadkin began

preparing for the night. The visitor meanwhile began snoring. Mr. Golyadkin in his turn got into bed, laughing and whispering to himself: “You are drunk today,

my dear fellow, Yakov Petrovitch, you rascal, you old Golyadkin — what a surname

to have! Why, what are you so pleased about? You’ll be crying tomorrow, you

know, you sniveller; what am I to do with you?”

At this point a rather strange sensation pervaded Mr. Golyadkin’s whole

being, something like doubt or remorse.

“I’ve been over-excited and let myself go,” he thought; “now I’ve a noise in my

head and I’m drunk; I couldn’t restrain myself, ass that I am! and I’ve been babbling bushels of nonsense, and, like a rascal, I was planning to be so sly. Of course, to forgive and forget injuries is the height of virtue; but it’s a bad thing, nevertheless! Yes, that is so!”

At this point Mr. Golyadkin got up, took a candle and went on tiptoe to look

once more at his sleeping guest. He stood over him for a long time meditating deeply.

“An unpleasant picture! A burlesque, a regular burlesque, and that’s the fact

of the matter!”

At last Mr. Golyadkin settled down finally. There was a humming, a buzzing, a

ringing in his head. He grew more and more drowsy . . . tried to think about something very important, some delicate question — but could not. Sleep

descended upon his devoted head, and he slept as people generally do sleep who

are not used to drinking and have consumed five glasses of punch at some festive gathering.