The Double

heart, so as not to embarrass the man, who had already suffered without that, in case he might not have decent underclothes, and partly to assure himself as far as possible about Petrushka, to test him, cheer him up if he could, and show kindness to the man, so that everyone would be happy and no spilled salt would be left on the table. It should be noted that Petrushka still troubled Mr. Goliadkin a little.

“You go to bed now, Pyotr,” Mr. Goliadkin said meekly, entering his servant’s compartment, “you go to bed now, and wake me tomorrow at eight o’clock. Understand, Petrusha?”

Mr. Goliadkin spoke extraordinarily softly and gently. But Petrushka was silent. He was pottering about near his bed at the time and did not even turn to his master, which he should have done, however, if only out of respect for him.

“Did you hear me, Pyotr?” Mr. Goliadkin continued. “You go to bed now, Petrusha, and wake me tomorrow at eight o’clock; understand?”

“So I know already, so drop it!” Petrushka muttered under his nose.

“Well, there, Petrusha; I’m just saying it so you’ll feel calm and happy. We’re all happy now, so you, too, should be calm and happy. And now I wish you good night. Sleep, Petrusha, sleep; we all must work…You know, brother, don’t go thinking anything…”

Mr. Goliadkin was about to begin, but stopped. “Won’t it be too much?” he thought. “Haven’t I overshot the mark? It’s always that way; I fill to overflowing.” Our hero left Petrushka’s very displeased with himself. Besides, he was slightly hurt by Petrushka’s rudeness and unyieldingness. “I make advances to the rogue, the master does the rogue that honor, and he doesn’t feel it,” thought Mr. Goliadkin. “However, that’s the mean tendency of all his kind!” Swaying a bit, he returned to his room and, seeing that his guest was already lying down, sat on his bed for a moment. “But confess, Yasha,” he began in a whisper and wagging his head, “you scoundrel, aren’t you guilty before me? You know, my namesake, you sort of…” he went on, making advances rather familiarly to his guest. Finally, taking leave of him amicably, Mr. Goliadkin went to bed. The guest meanwhile began to snore. Mr. Goliadkin, in his turn, began to stretch out in bed, and meanwhile, chuckling, whispered to himself: “And you’re drunk tonight, Yakov Petrovich, my dear heart, what a scoundrel you are, eh, what a Goliadka—that’s what your name is!! Well, why are you so glad? You’ll be weeping tomorrow, you’re such a sniveler: what am I to do with you?!” Here a rather strange sensation echoed through Mr. Goliadkin’s whole being, something like doubt or regret. “I really let myself go,” he thought, “there’s a buzzing in my head now, and I’m drunk; and you couldn’t help yourself, you’re such a big fool! poured out three buckets of drivel and still wanted to be clever, you scoundrel. Of course, forgiving and forgetting an offense is the foremost virtue, but all the same things are bad, that’s what!” Here Mr. Goliadkin got up, took a candle, and went on tiptoe to look at his sleeping guest. For a long time he stood over him deep in thought. “An unpleasant picture! a lampoon, the sheerest lampoon, that’s the end of it!”

Finally, Mr. Goliadkin lay down. In his head there was a buzzing, a crackling, a ringing. He began to sink into oblivion…tried to think about something, to remember something highly interesting, to resolve something highly important, some ticklish matter—but could not. Sleep flew down upon his victorious head, and he dropped off as people usually do who, without being accustomed to it, suddenly avail themselves of five glasses of punch at some friendly soiree.

CHAPTER VIII

AS USUAL, MR. GOLIADKIN woke up the next day at eight o’clock; on waking up, he at once recalled all that had happened yesterday evening, recalled it and winced. “Eh, I got playful yesterday like some kind of fool!” he thought, getting out of bed and looking at his guest’s bed. But what was his surprise when not only the guest but even the bed on which the guest had slept was not in the room! “What is this?” Mr. Goliadkin all but cried out. “What can this possibly be? What does this new circumstance mean?” While Mr. Goliadkin, in perplexity, stared open-mouthed at the now empty place, the door creaked, and Petrushka came in with the tea tray. “But where, where?” our hero uttered in a barely audible voice, pointing his finger at the place reserved yesterday for the guest. Petrushka at first made no reply, did not even look at his master, but shifted his eyes to the right corner, so that Mr. Goliadkin was also forced to look into the right corner. However, after some silence, Petrushka replied in a husky and rude voice that “the master wasn’t home.”

“You fool, I’m your master, Petrushka,” Mr. Goliadkin said in a faltering voice and stared all eyes at his servant.

Petrushka did not respond, but gave Mr. Goliadkin such a look that Mr. Goliadkin blushed to the ears—a look of some sort of insulting reproach, similar to outright abuse. Mr. Goliadkin dropped his arms, as they say. Finally, Petrushka announced that the other had left about an hour and a half ago and had not wanted to wait. Of course, the answer was probable and plausible; it was evident that Petrushka was not lying, that his insulting look and the word other he had used were merely the consequence of the abominable circumstance known to all, but even so he understood, though vaguely, that something was wrong here and that fate was preparing some further treat for him, a not entirely pleasant one. “Very well, we’ll see,” he thought to himself, “we’ll see, we’ll crack all this in due time…Ah, Lord God!” he moaned in conclusion, in a totally different voice, “why did I invite him, to what end did I do all that? I’m truly putting my own head into their thievish noose, I’m tying the noose myself. Oh, head, head! you can’t help yourself, you spill everything like some little brat, some office clerk, like some rankless trash, a rag, some rotten old shred, gossip that you are, old woman that you are!…Saints alive! And the rogue wrote a little ditty and declared his love for me! How can I, sort of…How can I show the rogue decently to the door, if he comes back? To be sure, there are many different turns and ways. Thus and so, I’ll say, given my limited resources…Or frighten him somehow, say, that taking this and that into consideration, I’m forced to inform you…say, we’ll have to go halves for room and board, and pay the money in advance. Hm! no, devil take it, no! That would besmirch me. It’s not entirely delicate! Maybe I could do it this way: try to get Petrushka into it, so that Petrushka irks him somehow, treats him somehow negligently, is rude to him, and get rid of him that way? Sic them on each other…No, devil take it, no! It’s dangerous, and again, if you look at it from that point of view—well, yes, quite wrong! Completely wrong! Well, but what if he doesn’t come? Will that also be bad? I spilled out a lot to him yesterday!…Ah, bad, bad! Ah, things are in such a bad way with us! Oh, my head, my cursed head! nothing gets sawed into you as it should, no sense gets nailed into you! And what if he comes and refuses? The Lord grant he does come! I’d be extremely glad if he came; I’d give a lot if he came…” So reasoned Mr. Goliadkin, gulping down his tea and constantly looking at the wall clock. “It’s now a quarter to nine; time to go. But what’s going to happen; what’s going to happen here? I wish I knew precisely what in particular is hidden here—the goal, the direction, the various hitches. It would be good to find out precisely what all these folk are aiming at and what their first step will be…” Mr. Goliadkin could no longer bear it, abandoned his half-smoked pipe, got dressed, and set off to work, wishing to catch the danger, if possible, and verify everything by his personal presence. And there was a danger: he knew himself that there was a danger. “But we’ll…crack it open,” Mr. Goliadkin was saying, taking off his overcoat and galoshes in the front hall, “now we’re going to penetrate all these matters.” Having decided to act in such fashion, our hero put himself to rights, assuming a decent and official air, and was just about to penetrate into the next room, when suddenly, just in the doorway, he ran into yesterday’s acquaintance, friend, and comrade. Mr. Goliadkin Jr. seemed not to notice Mr. Goliadkin Sr., though they met almost nose-to-nose. Mr. Goliadkin Jr. seemed to be busy, hurrying somewhere, out of breath; he looked so official, so businesslike, that it seemed anyone could have read directly in his face: “Sent on a special mission…”

“Ah, it’s you, Yakov Petrovich!” our hero said, seizing yesterday’s guest by the arm.

“Later, later, excuse me, you can tell me later,” cried Mr. Goliadkin Jr., rushing ahead.

“Though, if you please, it seems you wanted, Yakov Petrovich, sort of…”

“What, sir? Explain quickly, sir.” Here Mr. Goliadkin’s guest from yesterday stopped as if with effort and reluctantly, and placed his ear directly to Mr. Goliadkin’s nose.

“I’ll tell you, Yakov Petrovich, that I am astonished at this reception…a reception which, obviously, I could in no way have expected.”

“There is a certain form for everything, sir. Report to his excellency’s secretary and then address yourself, as is proper, to the office manager. Do you have a petition?…”

“I hardly know you, Yakov Petrovich! You simply amaze me, Yakov Petrovich! Surely you don’t recognize me, or else you’re joking, owing to your innately merry character.”