The Double and The Gambler Page 12

  “That’ll be one rouble and ten kopecks,” the counterman said through his teeth.

  Mr. Goliadkin was properly astounded.

  “Are you speaking to me?…I…it seems I took one little pie.”

  “You took eleven,” the counterman objected with assurance.

  “You…as it seems to me…you seem to be mistaken…Truly, it seems I took one little pie.”

  “I was counting; you took eleven. When you take, you have to pay; we don’t give anything for free.”

  Mr. Goliadkin was dumbstruck. “What is this, is some kind of witchcraft being worked on me?” he thought. Meanwhile the counterman was waiting for Mr. Goliadkin’s decision; Mr. Goliadkin was surrounded; Mr. Goliadkin had already gone to his pocket to take out a silver rouble, to pay immediately, to be out of harm’s way. “Well, if it’s eleven, it’s eleven,” he thought, turning red as a lobster, “well, what of it if eleven little pies got eaten? Well, a man’s hungry, so he eats eleven little pies; well, let him eat and enjoy it; well, there’s nothing to wonder at and nothing to laugh at…” Suddenly something as if pricked Mr. Goliadkin; he raised his eyes and—at once understood the riddle, understood all the witchcraft; at once all the difficulties were resolved…In the doorway to the next room, almost directly behind the counterman’s back and facing Mr. Goliadkin, in the doorway which, incidentally, till then our hero had taken for a mirror, stood a little fellow—stood he, stood Mr. Goliadkin himself—not the old Mr. Goliadkin, not the hero of our story, but the other Mr. Goliadkin, the new Mr. Goliadkin. The other Mr. Goliadkin was evidently in excellent spirits. He smiled at Mr. Goliadkin-the-first, nodded his head to him, winked his eye, minced slightly with his feet, and looked as if he was all set to efface himself, slip into the next room, and then, perhaps, out the back door, and that would be it…all pursuit would be in vain. In his hand was the last piece of the tenth little pie, which he, right in front of Mr. Goliadkin’s eyes, sent into his mouth, smacking with pleasure. “Supplanted me, the scoundrel!” thought Mr. Goliadkin, flaring up like fire with shame. “He’s not ashamed in public! Can’t they see him? Nobody seems to notice…” Mr. Goliadkin flung down the silver rouble as if it burned his fingers, and, not noticing the significantly impudent smile of the counterman, a smile of triumph and calm strength, tore himself from the crowd, and rushed away without looking back. “Thanks at least that he didn’t compromise a man utterly!” thought Mr. Goliadkin Sr. “Thanks to the brigand, to him and to fate, that it still got settled so well. Only the counterman was rude. But then he was within his rights! He was owed a rouble and ten kopecks, so he was within his rights. Meaning, we don’t give to anyone without money! Though he could have been more polite, the lout!…”

  Mr. Goliadkin was saying all this as he went down the stairs to the porch. However, on the last step he stopped as if rooted to the spot and suddenly turned so red from a fit of wounded pride that tears even welled up in his eyes. Having stood for half a minute like a post, he suddenly stamped his foot resolutely, leaped from the porch to the street in a single bound, and, without looking back, breathless, feeling no fatigue, set out for his home on Shestilavochnaya Street. At home, not even taking off his street clothes, contrary to his habit of dressing informally at home, not even taking his pipe first, he immediately sat on the sofa, moved the inkstand towards him, picked up the pen, took out a sheet of writing paper, and began to scribble, in a hand trembling from inner agitation, the following missive:

  My dear Yakov Petrovich!

  I would never have taken up the pen, if my circumstances and you yourself, my dear sir, had not forced me to do so. Believe me, necessity alone has forced me to enter upon such a discussion with you, and therefore I beg you first of all not to consider this measure of mine, my dear sir, as deliberately intended to insult you, but as a necessary consequence of the circumstances which now bind us.

  “Seems good, decent, polite, though not without force and firmness?…Nothing offensive to him here, it seems. Besides, I’m within my rights,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, rereading what he had written.

  Your unexpected and strange appearance, my dear sir, on a stormy night, after my enemies, whose names I omit out of disdain for them, had acted rudely and indecently with me, has been the germ of all the misunderstandings existing between us at the present time. Your stubborn desire, my dear sir, to have your own way and forcibly enter the circle of my existence and all the relations of my practical life even goes beyond the limits demanded by mere politeness and simple sociality. I think there is no point in mentioning here, my dear sir, your theft of my papers and of my own honorable name in order to win favor with our superiors—favor you did not merit. There is no point in mentioning here your deliberate and offensive avoidance of the explanations necessary on such an occasion. Finally, to say all, I do not mention here your last strange, one might say incomprehensible, act in the coffeehouse. Far be it from me to lament the, for me, useless loss of a silver rouble; yet I cannot but express all my indignation at the recollection of your obvious infringement, my dear sir, to the detriment of my honor, and, moreover, in the presence of several persons who, though not of my acquaintance, are yet of quite good tone…

  “Am I not going too far?” thought Mr. Goliadkin. “Won’t it be too much; isn’t it too offensive—this allusion to good tone, for instance?…Well, never mind! I must show firmness of character with him. However, to soften it, maybe I’ll just flatter him and butter him up a little at the end. We’ll see to that.”

  But I would not weary you, my dear sir, with my letter, if I were not firmly convinced that the nobility of your heart’s feelings and your open, straightforward character would point you to the means for setting all omissions to rights and restoring everything as it was before.

  In the fullest hopes, I venture to rest assured that you for your part will not take offense at my letter, and with that will not refuse to explain yourself specifically on this occasion in writing, through the mediation of my man.

  In expectation, I have the honor of remaining, my dear sir,

  Your most humble servant,

  Ya. Goliadkin.

  “Well, that’s all fine. The deed is done; it’s even gone as far as writing. But who is to blame? He himself is to blame: he himself has driven a man to the necessity of requesting written documents. And I’m within my rights…”

  Having reread the letter for a last time, Mr. Goliadkin folded it, sealed it, and summoned Petrushka. Petrushka appeared, as was his custom, with sleepy eyes and extremely angry at something.

  “Here, brother, take this letter…understand?”

  Petrushka was silent.

  “Take it and bring it to the department; there you’ll find the man on duty, Provincial Secretary Vakhrameev. Vakhrameev is on duty today. Do you understand that?”

  “I understand.”

  “ ‘I understand’! You can’t say: ‘I understand, sir.’ You’ll ask for the clerk Vakhrameev and tell him, say, thus and so, say, my master sends his respects and humbly asks you to consult our department address book, say, for where Titular Councillor Goliadkin lives.”

  Petrushka said nothing and, as it seemed to Mr. Goliadkin, smiled.

  “Well, so then, Pyotr, you’ll ask for the address and find out where the newly hired clerk Goliadkin lives?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ll ask the address, and take the letter to that address. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “If there…where you take this letter—the gentleman to whom you give the letter, this Goliadkin…Why are you laughing, blockhead?”

  “Why should I laugh? What’s it to me? It’s nothing, sir. The likes of us oughtn’t to go laughing…”

  “Well, so then…if that gentleman asks, say, how’s your master, how is it with him; what, say, is he sort of…well, if he starts asking questions—you keep mum and answer, say, my master’s all right, but he asks, say, for an answer in your own hand. Understand?”

&nb
sp; “I understand, sir.”

  “Well, then, say, my master, say, tell him, he’s all right, say, and in good health, and is, say, about to go visiting; but he asks you, say, for an answer in writing. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Well, off you go.”

  “So I’ve also got to work on this blockhead! He laughs to himself, and that’s the end. What’s he laughing at? I’ve lived my way into trouble, lived my way into trouble like this! However, maybe it will all turn out for the best…That crook will most likely drag about for a couple of hours, or else disappear somewhere. Can’t send him anywhere. Ah, such trouble!…ah, such trouble’s come over me!…”

  Thus, fully aware of his trouble, our hero decided on a passive two-hour role of waiting for Petrushka. For about an hour he paced the room, smoked, then abandoned his pipe and sat down with some book, then lay on the sofa, then picked up his pipe again, then again began to rush about the room. He tried to reason, but was decidedly unable to reason about anything. Finally, the agony of his passive condition reached the ultimate degree, and Mr. Goliadkin decided to take a certain measure. “Petrushka won’t come for another hour,” he thought. “I can give the key to the caretaker, and meanwhile sort of…investigate the affair, investigate it for my own part.” Losing no time and hastening to investigate the affair, Mr. Goliadkin took his hat, left the room, locked the apartment, stopped at the caretaker’s, handed him the keys along with ten kopecks—Mr. Goliadkin had somehow become extraordinarily generous—and set off for where he had to go. Mr. Goliadkin set off on foot, first, for the Izmailovsky Bridge. He spent half an hour walking. On reaching the goal of his journey, he went straight into the courtyard of the familiar house and looked at the windows of State Councillor Berendeev’s apartment. Except for the three windows hung with red curtains, all the rest were dark. “Olsufy Ivanovich must have no guests today,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, “they must all be at home by themselves now.” Having stood in the courtyard for some time, our hero was about to decide on something. But the decision was not destined to take place, evidently. Mr. Goliadkin finished thinking, waved his hand, and went back out to the street. “No, this is not where I needed to come. What am I going to do here?…But now I’d better sort of…and investigate the affair in person.” Having taken such a decision, Mr. Goliadkin set off for his department. The way was not short, moreover it was terribly dirty, and wet snow was pouring down in the thickest flakes. But at the present time, it seems, there were no difficulties for our hero. He did get soaked, true, and also not a little dirty, “but that was just while he was about it, and meanwhile the goal was attained.” And indeed Mr. Goliadkin was already nearing his goal. The dark mass of the enormous official building showed black in the distance before him. “Wait!” he thought, “where am I going and what will I do there? Suppose I learn where he lives; and meanwhile Petrushka is probably already back and has brought me the answer. I’m only wasting my precious time for nothing, I’ve only wasted my time this way. Well, never mind; it can all still be put right. Although, and in fact, shouldn’t I go and see Vakhrameev? Well, but no! I can later…Ehh, there was no need at all to go out! But no, that’s my character! Such an urge, whether it’s needed or not, to be always trying to run ahead somehow…Hm…what time is it? Must be nine already. Petrushka may come and not find me at home. It was sheer stupidity for me to go out…Ah, really, what a chore!”

  Having thus sincerely acknowledged that he had committed a sheer folly, our hero ran back home to Shestilavochnaya. He arrived there weary, worn out. He learned from the caretaker that Petrushka had never dreamed of coming. “Well, so! I anticipated that,” our hero thought, “and yet it’s already nine o’clock. What a scoundrel! Eternally drinking somewhere! Lord God! what a day has fallen to my miserable lot!” Reflecting and lamenting like this, Mr. Goliadkin unlocked his apartment, fetched a light, got undressed, smoked a pipe, and, exhausted, weary, broken, hungry, lay down on the sofa to wait for Petrushka. The candle burned dimly, light flickered over the walls…Mr. Goliadkin stared and stared, thought and thought, and finally fell asleep like the dead.

  He woke up late. The candle had burned down almost entirely, smoked, and was ready at any moment to go out altogether. Mr. Goliadkin jumped up, roused himself, and remembered everything, decidedly everything. From behind the partition came Petrushka’s dense snoring. Mr. Goliadkin rushed to the window—not a light anywhere. He opened the vent pane—stillness; the city slept like the dead. Meaning it was around two or three o’clock; and so it was: the clock behind the partition strained and struck two. Mr. Goliadkin rushed behind the partition.

  Somehow, though after long efforts, he shook Petrushka awake and managed to sit him up in bed. During that time the candle went out completely. About ten minutes passed before Mr. Goliadkin managed to find another candle and light it. During that time Petrushka managed to fall asleep again. “You rogue, you blackguard!” said Mr. Goliadkin, shaking him awake again. “Get up, wake up, will you?” After half an hour of efforts, Mr. Goliadkin managed, however, to rouse his servant completely and drag him from behind the partition. Only then did our hero see that Petrushka was, as they say, dead drunk and barely able to keep on his feet.

  “You lout!” cried Mr. Goliadkin. “You brigand! You’ve cut off my head! Lord, where did he unload that letter? Ah, God in heaven, what if it…And why did I write it? As if I had to write it! Fool that I am, galloping away with my vanity! There’s where I got with my vanity! That’s vanity for you, you scoundrel, that’s vanity for you!…Hey, you, what did you do with that letter, you brigand! Who did you give it to?”

  “I never gave anybody any letter; and I never had any letter…that’s what!”

  Mr. Goliadkin wrung his hands in despair.

  “Listen, Pyotr…you listen, you listen to me…”

  “I’m listening…”

  “Where did you go? Answer…”

  “Where did I go…I went to good people! what else!”

  “Ah, Lord God! Where did you go first? Did you go to the department?…Listen, Pyotr, maybe you’re drunk?”

  “Me drunk? May I die on this spot, not a ti-ti-tittle—so there…”

  “No, no, it’s nothing that you’re drunk…I just asked; it’s good that you’re drunk; it’s nothing to me, Petrusha, it’s nothing tome…Maybe you’ve only just forgotten, but do remember it all. Well, now, try to recall, did you go to see the clerk Vakhrameev—did you or didn’t you?”

  “I didn’t, and there never was any such clerk. Right now you could…”

  “No, no, Pyotr! No, Petrusha, it’s nothing to me. You see, it’s nothing to me…Well, what of it! Well, it’s cold outside, damp, well, so a man has a little drink, well, what of it…I’m not angry. I myself had a drink today, brother…Confess, recollect, brother: did you go to the clerk Vakhrameev?”

  “Well, if it’s come to that now, then really and truly—I did go, right now you could…”

  “Well, that’s good, Petrusha, it’s good you went. You see, I’m not angry…Well, well,” our hero went on, cajoling his servant still more, patting him on the shoulder and smiling at him, “well, you had a drop, you blackguard…a ten-kopeck drop, eh? you slyboots! Well, never mind; well, you see, I’m not angry…I’m not angry, brother, I’m not angry…”

  “No, as you like, but I’m not a slyboots, sir…I just stopped to see some good people, but I’m no slyboots, and I’ve never been a slyboots…”

  “Right, you’re not, you’re not, Petrusha! Listen, Pyotr: it’s nothing to me, it’s not to abuse you that I call you a slyboots. I say it kindly to you, in a noble sense. It’s sometimes flattering, Petrusha, to tell a man he’s a stitch, a cunning fellow, that there’s no flies on him, and he won’t let anybody hoodwink him. Some people like it…Well, well, never mind! Well, now tell me, Petrusha, without hiding anything, openly, as to a friend…well, so you went to the clerk Vakhrameev, and he gave you an address?”

  “And he gave me an ad
dress, he also gave me an address. A good clerk! And your master, he says, is a good man, very good, he says; tell him, he says—I send greetings, he says, to your master, thank him and tell him, he says, that I love him—see, he says, how I respect your master! because, he says, your master, Petrusha, is a good man, he says, and you, he says, are also a good man, Petrusha—so there…”

  “Ah, Lord God! And the address, the address, you Judas?” Mr. Goliadkin uttered the last words almost in a whisper.

  “And the address…and he gave me the address.”

  “He did? Well, where does he live, this Goliadkin, the clerk Goliadkin, the titular councillor?”

  “And your Goliadkin, he says, you’ll find on Shestilavochnaya Street. You just go, he says, to Shestilavochnaya, to the right, upstairs, on the fourth floor. There, he says, you’ll find your Goliadkin…”