The Double — Chapter 8

Mr. Golyadkin woke up next morning at eight o’clock as usual; as soon as he was

awake he recalled all the adventures of the previous evening — and frowned as he

recalled them. “Ugh, I did play the fool last night!” he thought, sitting up and glancing at his visitor’s bed. But what was his amazement when he saw in the room no trace, not only of his visitor, but even of the bed on which his visitor had

slept!

“What does it mean?” Mr. Golyadkin almost shrieked. “What can it be? What

does this new circumstance portend?”

While Mr. Golyadkin was gazing in open-mouthed bewilderment at the empty

spot, the door creaked and Petrushka came in with the tea-tray.

“Where, where?” our hero said in a voice hardly audible, pointing to the place

which had ben occupied by his visitor the night before.

At first Petrushka made no answer and did not look at his master, but fixed

his eyes upon the corner to the right till Mr. Golyadkin felt compelled to look into

that corner too. After a brief silence, however, Petrushka in a rude and husky voice

answered that his master was not at home.

“You idiot; why I’m your master, Petrushka!” said Mr. Golyadkin in a

breaking voice, looking open-eyed at his servant.

Petrushka made no reply, but he gave Mr. Golyadkin such a look that the

latter crimsoned to his ears — looked at him with an insulting reproachfulness almost equivalent to open abuse. Mr. Golyadkin was utterly flabbergasted, as the

saying is. At last Petrushka explained that the ‘other one’ had gone away an hour

and a half ago, and would not wait. His answer, of course, sounded truthful and probable; it was evident that Petrushka was not lying; that his insulting look and

the phrase the ‘other one’ employed by him were only the result of the disgusting

circumstance with which he was already familiar, but still he understood, though

dimly, that something was wrong, and that destiny had some other surprise, not

altogether a pleasant one, in store for him.

“All right, we shall see,” he thought to himself. “We shall see in due time; we’ll

get to the bottom of all this . . . Oh, Lord, have mercy upon us!” he moaned in

conclusion, in quite a different voice. “And why did I invite him to what end did I do all that? Why, I am thrusting my head into their thievish noose myself; I am tying the noose with my own hands. Ach, you fool, you fool! You can’t resist babbling like some silly boy, some chancery clerk, some wretched creature of no class at all, some rag, some rotten dishcloth; you’re a gossip, an old woman! . . .

Oh, all ye saints! And he wrote verses, the rogue, and expressed his love for me!

How could . . . How can I show him the door in a polite way if he turns up again,

the rogue? Of course, there are all sorts of ways and means. I can say this is how it

is, my salary being so limited . . . Or scare him off in some way saying that, taking

this and that into consideration, I am forced to make clear . . . that he would have

to pay an equal share of the cost of board and lodging, and pay the money in advance. H’m! No, damn it all, no! That would be degrading to me. It’s not quite

delicate! Couldn’t I do something like this: suggest to Petrushka that he should annoy him in some way, should be disrespectful, be rude, and get rid of him in that way. Set them at each other in some way. . . . No, damn it all, no! It’s dangerous and again, if one looks at it from that point of view — it’s not the right

thing at all! Not the right thing at all! But there, even if he doesn’t come, it will be

a bad look-out, too! I babbled to him last night! . . . Ach, it’s a bad look-out, a bad

look-out! Ach, we’re in a bad way! Oh, I’m a cursed fool, a cursed fool! you can’t

train yourself to behave as you ought, you can’t conduct yourself reasonably. Well,

what if he comes and refuses. And God grant he may come! I should be very glad if

he did come . . . .”

Such were Mr. Golyadkin’s reflections as he swallowed his tea and glanced

continually at the clock on the wall.

“It’s a quarter to nine; it’s time to go. And something will happen! What will

there be there? I should like to know what exactly lies hidden in this — that is, the

object, the aim, and the various intrigues. It would be a good thing to find out what all these people are plotting, and what will be their first step . . . .”

Mr. Golyadkin could endure it no longer. He threw down his unfinished pipe,

dressed and set off for the office, anxious to ward off the danger if possible and to

reassure himself about everything by his presence in person. There was danger: he

knew himself that there was danger.

“We . . . will get to the bottom of it,” said Mr. Golyadkin, taking off his coat

and goloshes in the entry. “We’ll go into all these matters immediately.”

Making up his mind to act in this way, our hero put himself to rights, assumed a correct and official air, and was just about to pass into the adjoining room, when suddenly, in the very doorway, he jostled against his acquaintance of

the day before, his friend and companion. Mr. Golyadkin junior seemed not to

notice Mr. Golyadkin senior, though they met almost nose to nose. Mr. Golyadkin

junior seemed to be busy, to be hastening somewhere, was breathless; he had such

an official, such a business-like air that it seemed as though any one could read his

face: ‘Entrusted with a special commission.’ …

“Oh, it’s you, Yakov Petrovitch!” said our hero, clutching the hand of his last

night’s visitor.

“Presently, presently, excuse me, tell me about it afterwards,” cried Mr.

Golyadkin junior, dashing on.

“But, excuse me; I believe, Yakov Petrovitch, you wanted …”

“What is it? Make haste and explain.”

At this point his visitor of the previous night halted as though reluctantly and

against his will, and put his ear almost to Mr. Golyadkin’s nose.

“I must tell you, Yakov Petrovitch, that I am surprised at your behaviour . . .

behaviour which seemingly I could not have expected at all.”

“There’s a proper form for everything. Go to his Excellency’s secretary and

then appeal in the proper way to the directors of the office. Have you got your petition?”

“You . . . I really don’t know Yakov Petrovitch! You simply amaze me, Yakov

Petrovitch! You certainly don’t recognize me or, with characteristic gaiety, you are

joking.”

“Oh, it’s you,” said Mr. Golyadkin junior, seeming only now to recognize Mr.

Golyadkin senior. “So, it’s you? Well, have you had a good night?”

Then smiling a little — a formal and conventional smile, by no means the sort

of smile that was befitting (for, after all, he owed a debt of gratitude to Mr.

Golyadkin senior) — smiling this formal and conventional smile, Mr. Golyadkin

junior added that he was very glad Mr. Golyadkin senior had had a good night; then he made a slight bow and shuffling a little with his feet, looked to the right,

and to the left, then dropped his eyes to the floor, made for the side door and

muttering in a hurried whisper that he had a special commission, dashed into the next room. He vanished like an apparition.

“Well, this is queer!” muttered our hero, petrified for a moment; “this is

queer! This is a strange circumstance.”

At this point Mr. Golyadkin felt as though he had pins and needles all over him.

“However,” he went on to himself, as he made his way to his department,

“however, I spoke long ago of such a circumstance: I had a presentiment long ago

that he had a special commission. Why, I said yesterday that the man must

certainly be employed on some special commission.”

“Have you finished copying out the document you had yesterday, Yakov

Petrovitch,” Anton Antonovitch Syetotchkin asked Mr. Golyadkin, when the latter

was seated beside him. “Have you got it here?”

“Yes,” murmured Mr. Golyadkin, looking at the head clerk with a rather

helpless glance.

“That’s right! I mention it because Andrey Filippovitch has asked for it twice.

I’ll be bound his Excellency wants it . . . .”

“Yes, it’s finished…”

“Well, that’s all right then.”

“I believe, Anton Antonovitch, I have always performed my duties properly.

I’m always scrupulous over the work entrusted to me by my superiors, and I

attend to it conscientiously.”

“Yes. Why, what do you mean by that?”

“I mean nothing, Anton Antonovitch. I only want to explain, Anton

Antonovitch, that I . . . that is, I meant to express that spite and malice sometimes

spare no person whatever in their search for their daily and revolting food . . . .”

“Excuse me, I don’t quite understand you. What person are you alluding to?”

“I only meant to say, Anton Antonovitch, that I’m seeking the straight path

and I scorn going to work in a roundabout way. That I am not one to intrigue, and

that, if I may be allowed to say so, I may very justly be proud of it . . . .”

“Yes. That’s quite so, and to the best of my comprehension I thoroughly

endorse your remarks; but allow me to tell you, Yakov Petrovitch, that personalities are not quite permissible in good society, that I, for instance, am ready to put up with anything behind my back — for every one’s abused behind his

back — but to my face, if you please, my good sir, I don’t allow any one to be impudent. I’ve grown grey in the government service, sir, and I don’t allow any one to be impudent to me in my old age . . . .”

“No, Anton Antonovitch . . . you see, Anton Antonovitch . . . you haven’t quite

caught my meaning. To be sure, Anton Antonovitch, I for my part could only think

it an honour …”

“Well, then, I ask pardon too. We’ve been brought up in the old school. And

it’s too late for us to learn your new-fangled ways. I believe we’ve had

understanding enough for the service of our country up to now. As you are aware,

sir, I have an order of merit for twenty-five years’ irreproachable service . . . .”

“I feel it, Anton Antonovitch, on my side, too, I quite feel all that. But I didn’t

mean that, I am speaking of a mask, Anton Antonovitch . . . .”

“A mask?”

“Again you . . . I am apprehensive that you are taking this, too, in a wrong sense, that is the sense of my remarks, as you say yourself, Anton Antonovitch. I

am simply enunciating a theory, that is, I am advancing the idea, Anton

Antonovitch, that persons who wear a mask have become far from uncommon,

and that nowadays it is hard to recognize the man beneath the mask …”

“Well, do you know, it’s not altogether so hard. Sometimes it’s fairly easy.

Sometimes one need not go far to look for it.”

“No, you know, Anton Antonovitch, I say, I say of myself, that I, for instance,

do not put on a mask except when there is need of it; that is simply at carnival time or at some festive gathering, speaking in the literal sense; but that I do not

wear a mask before people in daily life, speaking in another less obvious sense.

That’s what I meant to say, Anton Antonovitch.”

“Oh, well, but we must drop all this, for now I’ve no time to spare,” said Anton

Antonovitch, getting up from his seat and collecting some papers in order to

report upon them to his Excellency. “Your business, as I imagine, will be explained

in due course without delay. You will see for yourself whom you should censure and whom you should blame, and thereupon I humbly beg you to spare me from

further explanations and arguments which interfere with my work . . . .”

“No, Anton Antonovitch,” Mr. Golyadkin, turning a little pale, began to the

retreating figure of Anton Antonovitch; “I had no intention of the kind.”

“What does it mean?” our hero went on to himself, when he was left alone;

“what quarter is the wind in now, and what is one to make of this new turn?”

At the very time when our bewildered and half-crushed hero was setting

himself to solve this new question, there was a sound of movement and bustle in

the next room, the door opened and Andrey Filippovitch, who had been on some

business in his Excellency’s study, appeared breathless in the doorway, and called

to Mr. Golyadkin. Knowing what was wanted and anxious not to keep Andrey

Filippovitch waiting, Mr. Golyadkin leapt up from his seat, and as was fitting immediately bustled for all he was worth getting the manuscript that was required

finally neat and ready and preparing to follow the manuscript and Andrey

Filippovitch into his Excellency’s study. Suddenly, almost slipping under the arm

of Andrey Filippovitch, who was standing right in the doorway, Mr. Golyadkin

junior darted into the room in breathless haste and bustle, with a solemn and resolutely official air; he bounded straight up to Mr. Golyadkin senior, who was expecting nothing less than such a visitation.

“The papers, Yakov Petrovitch, the papers . . . his Excellency has been pleased

to ask for them; have you got them ready?” Mr. Golyadkin senior’s friend

whispered in a hurried undertone. “Andrey Filippovitch is waiting for you . . . .”

“I know he is waiting without your telling me,” said Mr. Golyadkin senior,

also in a hurried whisper.

“No, Yakov Petrovitch, I did not mean that; I did not mean that at all, Yakov

Petrovitch, not that at all; I sympathise with you, Yakov Petrovitch, and am

humbly moved by genuine interest.”

“Which I most humbly beg you to spare me. Allow me, allow me …”

“You’ll put it in an envelope, of course, Yakov Petrovitch, and you’ll put a mark in the third page; allow me, Yakov Petrovitch . . . .”

“You allow me, if you please …”

“But, I say, there’s a blot here, Yakov Petrovitch; did you know there was a blot here? …”

At this point Andrey Filippovitch called Yakov Petrovitch a second time.

“One moment, Andrey Filippovitch, I’m only just . . . Do you understand

Russian, sir?”

“It would be best to take it out with a penknife, Yakov Petrovitch. You had better rely upon me; you had better not touch it yourself, Yakov Petrovitch, rely upon me — I’ll do it with a penknife …”

Andrey Filippovitch called Mr. Golyadkin a third time.

“But, allow me, where’s the blot? I don’t think there’s a blot at all.”

“It’s a huge blot. Here it is! Here, allow me, I saw it here . . . you just let me,

Yakov Petrovitch, I’ll just touch it with the penknife, I’ll scratch it out with the penknife from true-hearted sympathy. There, like this; see, it’s done.”

At this point, and quite unexpectedly, Mr. Golyadkin junior overpowered Mr.

Golyadkin senior in the momentary struggle that had arisen between them, and

so, entirely against the latter’s will, suddenly, without rhyme or reason, took possession of the document required by the authorities, and instead of scratching

it out with the penknife in true-hearted sympathy as he had perfidiously promised

Mr. Golyadkin senior, hurriedly rolled it up, put it under his arm, in two bounds

was beside Andrey Filippovitch, who noticed none of his manoeuvres, and flew

with the latter into the Director’s room. Mr. Golyadkin remained as though

rivetted to the spot, holding the penknife in his hand and apparently on the point

of scratching something out with it …

Our hero could not yet grasp his new position. He could not at once recover

himself. He felt the blow, but thought that it was somehow all right. In terrible, indescribable misery he tore himself at last from his seat, rushed straight to the Director’s room, imploring heaven on the way that it would be all right . . . In the

furthest most room, which adjoined the Director’s private room, he ran straight upon Andrey Filippovitch in company with his namesake. Both of them moved

aside. Andrey Filippovitch was talking with a good-humoured smile, Mr.

Golyadkin senior’s namesake was smiling, too, fawning upon Andrey Filippovitch

and tripping about at a respectful distance from him, and was whispering

something in his ear with a delighted air, to which Andrey Filippovitch assented with a gracious nod. In a flash our hero grasped the whole position. The fact was

that the work had surpassed his Excellency’s expectations (as he learnt

afterwards) and was finished punctually by the time it was needed. His Excellency was extremely pleased with it. It was even said that his excellency had said “Thank

you” to Mr. Golyadkin junior, had thanked him warmly, had said that he would remember it on occasion and would never forget it. . . . Of course, the first thing

Mr. Golyadkin did was to protest, to protest with the utmost vigour of which he was capable. Pale as death, and hardly knowing what he was doing, he rushed up

to Andrey Filippovitch. But the latter, hearing that Mr. Golyadkin’s business was a

private matter, refused to listen, observing firmly that he had not a minute to spare for his own affairs.

The curtness of his tone and his refusal struck Mr. Golyadkin.

“I had better, perhaps, try in another quarter . . . I had better appeal to Anton

Antonovitch.”

But to his disappointment Anton Antonovitch was not available either: he,

too, was busy over something somewhere!

“Ah, it was not without design that he asked me to spare him explanation and

discussion!” thought our hero. “This was what the old rogue had in his mind! In

that case I shall simply make bold to approach his Excellency.”

Still pale and feeling that his brain was in a complete ferment, greatly

perplexed as to what he ought to decide to do, Mr. Golyadkin sat down on the edge

of the chair. “It would have been a great deal better if it had all been just nothing,”

he kept incessantly thinking to himself. “Indeed, such a mysterious business was

utterly improbable. In the first place, it was nonsense, and secondly it could not happen. Most likely it was imagination, or something else happened, and not what

really did happen; or perhaps I went myself . . . and somehow mistook myself for

some one else . . . in short, it’s an utterly impossible thing.”

Mr. Golyadkin had no sooner made up his mind that it was an utterly

impossible thing that Mr. Golyadkin junior flew into the room with papers in both

hands as well as under his arm. Saying two or three words about business to Andrey Filippovitch as he passed, exchanging remarks with one, polite greetings with another, and familiarities with a third, Mr. Golyadkin junior, having

apparently no time to waste, seemed on the point of leaving the room, but luckily

for Mr. Golyadkin senior he stopped near the door to say a few words as he passed

two or three clerks who were at work there. Mr. Golyadkin senior rushed straight

at him. As soon as Mr. Golyadkin junior saw Mr. Golyadkin senior’s movement he began immediately, with great uneasiness, looking about him to make his escape.

but our hero already held his last night’s guest by the sleeve. The clerks

surrounding the two titular councillors stepped back and waited with curiosity to

see what would happen. The senior titular councillor realized that public opinion

was not on his side, he realized that they were intriguing against him: which made

it all the more necessary to hold his own now. The moment was a decisive one.

“Well!” said Mr. Golyadkin junior, looking rather impatiently at Mr.

Golyadkin senior.

The latter could hardly breathe.

“I don’t know,” he began, “in what way to make plain to you the strangeness

of your behaviour, sir.”

“Well. Go on.” At this point Mr. Golyadkin junior turned round and winked to

the clerks standing round, as though to give them to understand that a comedy was beginning.

“The impudence and shamelessness of your manners with me, sir, in the

present case, unmasks your true character . . . better than any words of mine could

do. Don’t rely on your trickery: it is worthless . . . .”

“Come, Yakov Petrovitch, tell me now, how did you spend the night?”

answered Mr. Golyadkin junior, looking Mr. Golyadkin senior straight in the eye.

“You forget yourself, sir,” said the titular councillor, completely flabbergasted,

hardly able to feel the floor under his feet. “I trust that you will take a different tone . . . .”

“My darling!” exclaimed Mr. Golyadkin junior, making a rather unseemly

grimace at Mr. Golyadkin senior, and suddenly, quite unexpectedly, under the

pretence of caressing him, he pinched his chubby cheek with two fingers.

Our hero grew as hot as fire . . . As soon as Mr. Golyadkin junior noticed that

his opponent, quivering in every limb, speechless with rage, as red as a lobster, and exasperated beyond all endurance, might actually be driven to attack him, he

promptly and in the most shameless way hastened to be beforehand with his

victim. Patting him two or three times on the cheek, tickling him two or three times, playing with him for a few seconds in this way while his victim stood rigid

and beside himself with fury to the no little diversion of the young men standing round, Mr. Golyadkin junior ended with a most revolting shamelessness by giving

Mr. Golyadkin senior a poke in his rather prominent stomach, and with a most venomous and suggestive smile said to him: “You’re mischievous brother Yakov,

you are mischievous! We’ll be sly, you and I, Yakov Petrovitch, we’ll be sly.”

Then, and before our hero could gradually come to himself after the last

attack, Mr. Golyadkin junior (with a little smile beforehand to the spectators standing round) suddenly assumed a most businesslike, busy and official air,

dropped his eyes to the floor and, drawing himself in, shrinking together, and pronouncing rapidly “on a special commission” he cut a caper with his short leg,

and darted away into the next room. Our hero could not believe his eyes and was

still unable to pull himself together…

At last he roused himself. Recognizing in a flash that he was ruined, in a sense

annihilated, that he had disgraced himself and sullied his reputation, that he had

been turned into ridicule and treated with contempt in the presence of spectators,

that he had been treacherously insulted, by one whom he had looked on only the

day before as his greatest and most trustworthy friend, that he had been put to utter confusion, Mr. Golyadkin senior rushed in pursuit of his enemy. At the

moment he would not even think of the witnesses of his ignominy.

“They’re all in a conspiracy together,” he said to himself; “they stand by each

other and set each other on to attack me.” After taking a dozen steps, however, our

hero perceived clearly that all pursuit would be vain and useless, and so he turned

back. “You won’t get away,” he thought, “you will get caught one day; the wolf will

have to pay for the sheep’s tears.”

With ferocious composure and the most resolute determination Mr.

Golyadkin went up to his chair and sat down upon it. “You won’t escape,” he said

again.

Now it was not a question of passive resistance: there was determination and

pugnacity in the air, and any one who had seen how Mr. Golyadkin at that

moment, flushed and scarcely able to restrain his excitement, stabbed his pen into

the inkstand and with what fury he began scribbling on the paper, could be certain

beforehand that the matter would not pass off like this, and could not end in a simple, womanish way. In the depth of his soul he formed a resolution, and in the

depth of his heart swore to carry it out. To tell the truth he still did not quite know

how to act, or rather did not know at all, but never mind, that did not matter!

“Imposture and shamelessness do not pay nowadays, sir. Imposture and

shamelessness, sir, lead to no good, but lead to the halter. Grishka Otrepyov was

the only one, sir, who gained by imposture, deceiving the blind people and even that not for long.”

In spite of this last circumstance Mr. Golyadkin proposed to wait til such time

as the mask should fall from certain persons and something should be made

manifest. For this it was necessary, in the first place, that office hours should be

over as soon as possible, and till then our hero proposed to take no step. He knew

then how he must act after taking that step, how to arrange his whole plan of action, to abase the horn of arrogance and crush the snake gnawing the dust in contemptible impotence. To allow himself to be treated like a rag used for wiping

dirty boots, Mr. Golyadkin could not. He could not consent to that, especially in the present case. Had it not been for that last insult, our hero might have, perhaps,

brought himself to control his anger; he might, perhaps, have been silent, have submitted and not have protested too obstinately; he would just have disputed a

little, have made a slight complaint, have proved that he was in the right, then he

would have given way a little, then, perhaps, he would have given way a little more, then he would have come round altogether, then, especially when the

opposing party solemnly admitted that he was right, perhaps, he would have

overlooked it completely, would even have been a little touched, there might even,

perhaps — who could tell — spring up a new, close, warm friendship, on an even

broader basis than the friendship of last night, so that this friendship might, in the

end, completely eclipse the unpleasantness of the rather unseemly resemblance of

the two individuals, so that both the titular councillors might be highly delighted,

and might go on living till they were a hundred, and so on. To tell the whole truth,

Mr. Golyadkin began to regret a little that he had stood up for himself and his rights, and had at once come in for unpleasantness in consequence.

“Should he give in,” thought Mr. Golyadkin, “say he was joking, I would

forgive him. I would forgive him even more if he would acknowledge it aloud. but I

won’t let myself be treated like a rag. And I have not allowed even persons very different from him to treat me so, still less will I permit a depraved person to attempt it. I am not a rag. I am not a rag, sir!”

In short, our hero made up his mind “You’re in fault yourself, sir!” he

thought. He made up his mind to protest with all his might to the very last. That was the sort of man he was! He could not consent to allow himself to be insulted,

still less to allow himself to be treated as a rag, and, above all, to allow a thoroughly vicious man to treat him so. No quarrelling, however, no quarrelling!

Possibly if some one wanted, if some one, for instance, actually insisted on turning

Mr. Golyadkin into rag, he might have done so, might have done so without

opposition or punishment (Mr. Golyadkin was himself conscious of this at times),

and he would have been a rag and not Golyadkin — yes, a nasty, filthy rag; but that

rag would not have been a simple rag, it would have been a rag possessed of dignity, it would have been a rag possessed of feelings and sentiments, even

though dignity was defenceless and feelings could not assert themselves, and lay

hidden deep down in the filthy folds of the rag, still these feelings were there …

The hours dragged on incredibly slowly; at last it struck four. Soon after, all

got up and, following the head of the department, moved each on his homeward

way. Mr. Golyadkin mingled with the crowd; he kept a vigilant look out, and did

not lose sight of the man he wanted. At last our hero saw that his friend ran up to

the office attendants who handed the clerks their overcoats, and hung about near

them waiting for his in his usual nasty way. The minute was a decisive one. Mr.

Golyadkin forced his way somehow through the crowd and, anxious not to be left

behind, he, too, began fussing about his overcoat. But Mr. Golyadkin’s friend and

companion was given his overcoat first because on this occasion, too, he had

succeeded, as he always did, in making up to them, whispering something to

them, cringing upon them and getting round them.

After putting on his overcoat, Mr. Golyadkin junior glanced ironically at Mr.

Golyadkin senior, acting in this way openly and defiantly, looked about him with

his characteristic insolence, finally he tripped to and fro among the other clerks —

no doubt in order to leave a good impression on them — said a word to one, whispered something to another, respectfully accosted a third, directed a smile at

a fourth, gave his hand to a fifth, and gaily darted downstairs. Mr. Golyadkin senior flew after him, and to his inexpressible delight overtook him on the last step, and seized him by the collar of his overcoat. It seemed as though Mr.

Golyadkin junior was a little disconcerted, and he looked about him with a

helpless air.

“What do you mean by this?” he whispered to Mr. Golyadkin at last, in a weak

voice.

“Sir, if you are a gentleman, I trust that you remember our friendly relations

yesterday,” said our hero.

“Ah, yes! Well? Did you sleep well?”

Fury rendered Mr. Golyadkin senior speechless for a moment.

“I slept well, sir . . . but allow me to tell you, sir, that you are playing a very

complicated game …”

“Who says so? My enemies say that,” answered abruptly the man who called

himself Mr. Golyadkin, and saying this, he unexpectedly freed himself from the feeble hand of the real Mr. Golyadkin. As soon as he was free he rushed away from

the stairs, looked around him, saw a cab, ran up to it, got in, and in one moment

vanished from Mr. Golyadkin senior’s sight. The despairing titular councillor,

abandoned by all, gazed about him, but there was no other cab. He tried to run, but his legs gave way under him. With a look of open-mouthed astonishment on

his countenance, feeling crushed and shrivelled up, he leaned helplessly against a

lamp post, and remained so for some minutes in the middle of the pavement. It seemed as though all were over for Mr. Golyadkin.