The Double and The Gambler Page 14

  Finally, Mr. Goliadkin could endure no longer. “This will not be!” he shouted, resolutely sitting up in bed, and after this exclamation, he awakened completely.

  Day had evidently begun long ago. The room was somehow unusually bright; the sun’s rays strained thickly through the frost-covered windowpanes and abundantly flooded the room, which surprised Mr. Goliadkin not a little; for the sun in its due progress peeked in on him only at noontime; previously such exceptions to the course of the heavenly luminary, at least as far as Mr. Goliadkin himself could recall, had almost never occurred. Our hero had just managed to marvel at it, when the wall clock behind the partition began to buzz and thus became completely ready to strike. “Ah, there!” thought Mr. Goliadkin, and in anguished expectation he got ready to listen…But, to Mr. Goliadkin’s complete and utter shock, his clock strained and struck only once. “What’s this story?” our hero cried, jumping out of bed altogether. Not believing his ears, he rushed behind the partition just as he was. The clock indeed showed one. Mr. Goliadkin glanced at Petrushka’s bed; but there was not even a whiff of Petrushka in the room: his bed had evidently long been made and left; there were no boots anywhere—an unquestionable sign that Petrushka was indeed not at home. Mr. Goliadkin rushed to the door: the door was locked. “But where is Petrushka?” he went on in a whisper, in terrible agitation, and feeling a considerable trembling in all his limbs…Suddenly a thought raced through his head…Mr. Goliadkin rushed to his desk, looked it over, searched around—that was it: yesterday’s letter to Vakhrameev was not there…Petrushka was also not there at all behind the partition; the wall clock showed one, and in yesterday’s letter from Vakhrameev some new points had been introduced which, though vague at first glance, were now quite explainable. Finally, Petrushka, too—obviously, Petrushka had been bribed! Yes, yes, it was so!

  “So it was there that the chief knot was tied!” cried Mr. Goliadkin, striking himself on the forehead and opening his eyes wider and wider. “So it’s in that niggardly German woman’s nest that the chief unclean powers are hidden now! So that means she was only making a strategic diversion when she directed me to the Izmailovsky Bridge—distracting my attention, confusing me (the worthless witch!), and in that way undermining me!!! Yes, it’s so! If you look at it from that side, it’s all precisely so! And the appearance of the scoundrel is now fully explained: it all goes together. They’ve been keeping him for a long time, preparing him and saving him for a rainy day. That’s how it is now, that’s how it all turns out! That’s the whole solution! Ah, well, never mind! I still have time!…” Here Mr. Goliadkin recalled with terror that it was already past one in the afternoon. “What if they’ve now managed to…” A groan burst from his breast…“But no, nonsense, they haven’t managed—we’ll see…” He dressed haphazardly, seized some paper, a pen, and scribbled the following missive:

  My dear Yakov Petrovich!

  Either you or me, but two of us is impossible! And therefore I announce to you that your strange, ridiculous, and at the same time impossible wish—to appear my twin and pass yourself off as such—will serve nothing except your total dishonor and defeat. And therefore I beg you, for your own benefit, to step aside and give way to people of true nobility and well-intentioned purposes. In the contrary case, I am prepared to venture even upon the most extreme measures. I lay down my pen and wait…However, I remain ready to be at your service and—to pistols.

  Ya. Goliadkin.

  Our hero rubbed his hands energetically when he had finished the note. Then, having pulled on his overcoat and put on his hat, he unlocked the door with a spare key and set off for the department. He reached the department, but did not venture to go in; indeed, it was much too late; Mr. Goliadkin’s watch showed half-past two. Suddenly a certain, apparently quite unimportant, circumstance resolved some of Mr. Goliadkin’s doubts: a breathless and red-faced little figure appeared from around the corner of the office building and stealthily, with a ratlike gait, darted onto the porch and then at once into the front hall. This was the scrivener Ostafyev, a man quite well known to Mr. Goliadkin, a somewhat necessary man and ready to do anything for ten kopecks. Knowing Ostafyev’s soft spot and realizing that, after absenting himself on a most urgent necessity, he was now probably still more avid for his ten-kopeck pieces, our hero decided not to be sparing and at once darted onto the porch and then also into the front hall after Ostafyev, called to him, and with a mysterious look invited him to one side, into a nook behind an enormous iron stove. Having led him there, our hero began asking questions.

  “Well, so, my friend, how’s things there, sort of…you understand me?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, I wish Your Honor good day.”

  “Very well, my friend, very well; and I’ll reward you, my dear friend. Well, so you see, how are things, my friend?”

  “What are you asking, if you please, sir?” Here Ostafyev slightly covered his accidentally opened mouth with his hand.

  “You see, my friend, I sort of…but don’t go thinking anything…Well, so, is Andrei Filippovich here?…”

  “He is, sir.”

  “And the clerks are here?”

  “The clerks also, as they should be, sir.”

  “And his excellency also?”

  “And his excellency also, sir.” Here once more the scrivener held his hand over his again opened mouth and looked at Mr. Goliadkin somehow curiously and strangely. At least it seemed so to our hero.

  “And there’s nothing special, my friend?”

  “No, sir, nothing at all, sir.”

  “So, my dear friend, there isn’t anything about me, anything just…eh? just so, my friend, you understand?”

  “No, sir, I’ve heard nothing so far.” Here the scrivener again held his hand to his mouth and again glanced at Mr. Goliadkin somehow strangely. The thing was that our hero was now trying to penetrate Ostafyev’s physiognomy, to read whether there was not something hidden in it. And indeed there seemed to be something hidden; the thing was that Ostafyev was becoming somehow ruder and dryer, and no longer entered into Mr. Goliadkin’s interests with the same concern as at the beginning of the conversation. “He’s partly within his rights,” thought Mr. Goliadkin. “What am I to him? He may already have gotten something from the other side, and that’s why he absented himself with such urgency. But now I’ll sort of…” Mr. Goliadkin understood that the time for ten-kopeck pieces had come.

  “Here you are, my dear friend…”

  “I cordially thank Your Honor.”

  “I’ll give you more.”

  “As you say, Your Honor.”

  “I’ll give you more now, at once, and when the matter’s ended, I’ll give you as much again. Understand?”

  The scrivener said nothing, stood at attention, and looked fixedly at Mr. Goliadkin.

  “Well, tell me now: have you heard anything about me?…”

  “It seems that, so far…sort of…nothing so far, sir.” Ostafyev also replied measuredly, like Mr. Goliadkin, preserving a slightly mysterious look, twitching his eyebrows slightly, looking at the ground, trying to fall into the right tone and, in short, trying with all his might to earn what had been promised, because what had been given he considered his own and definitively acquired.

  “And nothing’s known?”

  “Not so far, sir.”

  “But listen…sort of…maybe it will be known?”

  “Later on, of course, maybe it will be known, sir.”

  “That’s bad!” thought our hero.

  “Listen, here’s more for you, my dear.”

  “I heartily thank Your Honor.”

  “Was Vakhrameev here yesterday?…”

  “He was, sir.”

  “And wasn’t there somebody else?…Try to recall, brother!”

  The scrivener rummaged in his memory for a moment and recalled nothing suitable.

  “No, sir, there was nobody else, sir.”

  “Hm!” Silence ensued.

  “Listen, brothe
r, here’s more for you; tell me everything, all the innermost secrets.”

  “Yes, sir.” Ostafyev was now standing there smooth as silk: that was just what Mr. Goliadkin wanted.

  “Tell me, brother, what sort of footing is he on now?”

  “All right, sir, quite good, sir,” replied the scrivener, staring all eyes at Mr. Goliadkin.

  “Good in what sense?”

  “In that sense, sir.” Here Ostafyev twitched his eyebrows significantly. However, he was decidedly at a loss and did not know what more to say. “That’s bad!” thought Mr. Goliadkin.

  “Haven’t they got something further going with this Vakhrameev?”

  “It’s all as before, sir.”

  “Think a little.”

  “They have, so it’s said, sir.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  Ostafyev held his hand over his mouth.

  “Is there a letter for me from there?”

  “Today the caretaker Mikheev went to Vakhrameev’s lodgings, to that German woman of theirs, sir, so I’ll go and ask if you like.”

  “Be so kind, brother, for heaven’s sake!…I’m just…Don’t go thinking anything, brother, I’m just…And ask questions, brother, find out if anything’s being prepared there on my account. How does he act? That’s what I need to know; you find that out, and then I’ll thank you well, my dear friend…”

  “Yes, sir, Your Honor, and today Ivan Semyonovich sat in your place, sir.”

  “Ivan Semyonovich? Ah! yes! Really?”

  “Andrei Filippovich told him to sit there, sir…”

  “Really? By what chance? Find that out, brother, for heaven’s sake, find that out; find everything out—and I’ll thank you well, my dear; that’s what I need to know…And don’t go thinking anything, brother…”

  “Yes, sir, yes, sir, I’ll come down here at once, sir. But, Your Honor, won’t you be going in today?”

  “No, my friend; it’s just so, just so, I’ve just come to have a look, my dear friend, and then I’ll thank you well, my dear.”

  “Yes, sir.” The scrivener quickly and zealously ran up the stairs, and Mr. Goliadkin was left alone.

  “That’s bad,” he thought. “Eh, it’s bad, bad! Eh, our little affair…it’s in such a bad way now! What can it all mean? What precisely can certain of this drunkard’s hints mean, for instance, and whose trick is it? Ah! now I know whose trick it is! Here’s the trick. They must have found out, and so they sat him there…However, what is it—they sat him there? It was Andrei Filippovich who sat him there, this Ivan Semyonovich; why, however, did he sit him there and with precisely what aim did he sit him? Probably they found out…It’s Vakhrameev’s work, that is, not Vakhrameev, he’s stupid as a pine log, this Vakhrameev; it’s all of them working for him, and they set the rogue on for the same purpose; and she complained, the one-eyed German! I’ve always suspected that this whole intrigue had something behind it, and that all this old-womanish gossip surely had something to it; I said as much to Krestyan Ivanovich, that, say, they’d sworn to cut a man down, speaking in a moral sense, so they seized on Karolina Ivanovna. No, masters are at work here, you can see! Here, my good sir, there’s a master’s hand at work, not Vakhrameev. It has already been said that Vakhrameev is stupid, but this…now I know who is working for them all here: it’s the rogue, the impostor! That’s the one thing he clings to, which partly explains his success in high society. And indeed, I wish I knew what footing he’s on now…what is he to them? Only why did they bring in Ivan Semyonovich? Why the devil did they need Ivan Semyonovich? As if they couldn’t have come up with somebody else? However, no matter who they sat there, it would all be the same; I only know that I’ve long suspected this Ivan Semyonovich, I’ve long noticed that he’s such a nasty old codger, such a vile one—they say he lends money on interest and takes interest like a Jew. It’s all that bear’s doing. The bear got mixed up in this whole circumstance. It started that way. It started by the Izmailovsky Bridge; that’s how it started…” Here Mr. Goliadkin winced as if he had bitten into a lemon, probably recalling something highly unpleasant. “Well, never mind, though!” he thought. “And I only go on about my own thing. Why doesn’t Ostafyev come? He must have gotten stuck or been stopped somehow. It’s partly good that I intrigue this way and undermine them from my side. Ostafyev only has to be given ten kopecks, and he sort of…and he’s on my side. Only here’s the thing: is he really on my side? Maybe they also, on their side…and in complicity with him, on their side, are conducting an intrigue. He has the look of a brigand, the crook, a sheer brigand! In secret, the rogue! ‘No, there’s nothing,’ he says, ‘and, say, I heartily thank Your Honor.’ You brigand!”

  Noise was heard…Mr. Goliadkin shrank and jumped behind the stove. Someone came down the stairs and went outside. “Who could be leaving like that now?” our hero thought to himself. A moment later someone’s footsteps were heard again…Here Mr. Goliadkin could not help himself and stuck the smallest tip of his nose out from behind his breast-work—stuck it out and pulled it back at once, as though someone had pricked his nose with a needle. This time you know who was going by—that is, the rogue, the intriguer and debaucher—walking as usual with his mean, rapid little step, mincing and prancing on his feet as if he was about to kick somebody. “The scoundrel!” our hero said to himself. However, Mr. Goliadkin could not fail to notice that under the scoundrel’s arm was an enormous green portfolio belonging to his excellency. “He’s on a special mission again,” thought Mr. Goliadkin, turning red and shrinking still more from vexation. No sooner did Mr. Goliadkin Jr. flash past Mr. Goliadkin Sr., without noticing him at all, than for a third time someone’s footsteps were heard, and this time Mr. Goliadkin guessed that the steps were the scrivener’s. Indeed, the slicked-down little figure of a scrivener peeked behind the stove; the little figure, however, was not Ostafyev but another scrivener named Scriverenko. This amazed Mr. Goliadkin. “Why is he mixing others into the secret?” thought our hero. “What barbarians! Nothing’s sacred to them!”

  “Well, so, my friend?” he said, addressing Scriverenko. “Who are you coming from, my friend?…”

  “It’s this, sir, on your little affair, sir. So far there’s no news from anyone, sir. But if there is, we’ll let you know, sir.”

  “And Ostafyev?…”

  “He really couldn’t come, Your Honor. His excellency has already made the rounds of the department twice, and I’ve got no time now.”

  “Thank you, my dear, thank you…Only tell me…”

  “By God, I’ve got no time, sir…We’re asked for every moment, sir…But you please go on standing here, sir, so that if there’s anything concerning your little affair, sir, we’ll let you know, sir…”

  “No, my friend, you tell me…”

  “Excuse me, sir; I’ve got no time, sir,” Scriverenko said, trying to tear free of Mr. Goliadkin, who had seized his coat skirt, “really, it’s impossible, sir. You kindly go on standing here, and we’ll let you know.”

  “One moment, one moment, my friend! one moment, my dear friend! Here’s what now: here’s a letter, my friend; and I’ll thank you well, my dear.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Try to hand it to Mr. Goliadkin, my dear.”

  “To Goliadkin?”

  “Yes, my friend, to Mr. Goliadkin.”

  “Very well, sir; once I’ve finished up, I’ll take it, sir. And you stand here meanwhile. Nobody’ll see you here…”

  “No, my friend, don’t go thinking I…I’m not standing here so that people won’t see me. I’ll no longer be here, my friend…I’ll bein the lane. There’sa coffeehouse; I’ll be waiting there, and if anything happens, you inform me about it all, understand?”

  “Very well, sir. Only let me go; I understand…”

  “And I’ll thank you well, my dear!” Mr. Goliadkin called after the finally freed Scriverenko…“The rogue seems to have grown ruder towards the end,” thought our hero, stealthily coming out from b
ehind the stove. “There’s another hitch here. That’s clear…First it was both this and that…However, he really was in a hurry; maybe there was a lot to do there. And his excellency made the rounds of the office twice…What might be the reason for that?…Oof! well, it’s nothing! maybe it’s nothing, however, but now we’re going to see…”