Fyodor Dostoevsky - The Double

“This is our Russian Faublas, {27} 27 The Adventures of Faublas , a novel by the French writer and Girondist Louvet de Couvrai (1760–97), was translated into Russian in 1792–6. gentlemen; allow me to introduce to you the young Faublas,” squeaked Mr. Goliadkin Jr., mincing and twining with an impudence all his own among the clerks and pointing to the petrified, and at the same time furious, real Mr. Goliadkin. “Give us a kiss, sweetie!” he went on with insufferable familiarity, moving closer to the man he had treacherously insulted. The little joke of the useless Mr. Goliadkin Jr. seemed to have found an echo in the right place, the more so as it contained a perfidious allusion to a circumstance that was already public and known to all. Our hero felt the hand of his enemies heavily on his shoulders. However, he was already resolved. With a burning gaze, a pale face, a fixed smile, he extricated himself somehow from the crowd and, with irregular, hurrying steps, made his way straight to his excellency’s office. In the next to last room, he met with Andrei Filippovich, who had just come from his excellency’s, and though there were quite a number of persons in the room at that moment who were total strangers to Mr. Goliadkin, our hero did not want to pay any attention to that circumstance. Directly, resolutely, and boldly, almost astonished at himself and inwardly praising himself for his boldness, without wasting any time he accosted Andrei Filippovich, who was quite amazed at such an unexpected assault.

“Ah!…what…what do you want?” asked the head of the office, not listening to Mr. Goliadkin, who had faltered over something.

“Andrei Filippovich, I…may I, Andrei Filippovich, have a talk with his excellency now, at once, and eye-to-eye?” our hero uttered eloquently and distinctly, directing a most resolute glance at Andrei Filippovich.

“What, sir? Of course not, sir.” Andrei Filippovich looked Mr. Goliadkin up and down.

“I say all this, Andrei Filippovich, because I’m surprised that no one here will expose an impostor and scoundrel.”

“Wha-a-at, sir?”

“A scoundrel, Andrei Filippovich.”

“To whom are you pleased to refer in this manner?”

“To a certain person, Andrei Filippovich. I am alluding, Andrei Filippovich, to a certain person; I am within my rights…I think, Andrei Filippovich, that the authorities should encourage such initiative,” added Mr. Goliadkin, obviously forgetting himself. “Andrei Filippovich…you probably can see for yourself…Andrei Filippovich, that this noble initiative betokens all possible good intentions in me—to take a superior as a father, Andrei Filippovich, say, I take a beneficent superior as a father and blindly entrust my fate to him. Thus and so, say…that’s what…” Here Mr. Goliadkin’s voice trembled, his face reddened, and two tears welled up on both of his eyelashes.

Andrei Filippovich was so surprised, listening to Mr. Goliadkin, that he somehow inadvertently drew back a couple of steps. Then he looked around uneasily…It is hard to say how the matter would have ended…But suddenly the door of his excellency’s office opened, and he himself emerged, in the company of several clerks. Everyone in the room was drawn after him. His excellency called to Andrei Filippovich and walked beside him, broaching a conversation about some business. When they all started moving and headed out of the room, Mr. Goliadkin came to his senses. Subdued, he took shelter under the wing of Anton Antonovich Setochkin, who in turn hobbled after them all and, as it seemed to Mr. Goliadkin, with a most stern and preoccupied air. “I’ve said too much again, I’ve mucked it up again,” he thought to himself. “Ah, well, never mind.”

“I hope that at least you, Anton Antonovich, will agree to listen to me and enter into my circumstances,” he said softly and in a voice still trembling with agitation. “Rejected by all, I turn to you. I’m still puzzled by the meaning of Andrei Filippovich’s words, Anton Antonovich. Explain them to me, if you can…”

“Everything will be explained in good time, sir,” Anton Antonovich replied sternly and measuredly and, as it seemed to Mr. Goliadkin, with an air which showed clearly that Anton Antonovich had no wish to continue the conversation. “You will learn everything shortly, sir. Today you will be formally notified of everything.”

“What do you mean by ‘formally,’ Anton Antonovich? Why precisely ‘formally,’ sir?” our hero asked timidly.

“It is not for us to reason, Yakov Petrovich, about what our superiors decide.”

“Why our superiors, Anton Antonovich,” Mr. Goliadkin asked still more timidly, “why our superiors? I see no reason why there’s any need to trouble our superiors here, Anton Antonovich…May be you mean to say something about yesterday, Anton Antonovich?”

“No, sir, not about yesterday, sir; there’s something else here that’s not up to snuff with you.”

“What’s not up to snuff, Anton Antonovich? It seems to me, Anton Antonovich, that there’s nothing that’s not up to snuff with me.”

“And this being clever with somebody?” Anton Antonovich sharply cut off the totally dumbfounded Mr. Goliadkin. Mr. Goliadkin gave a start and turned white as a sheet.

“Of course, Anton Antonovich,” he said in a barely audible voice, “if we heed the voice of calumny and listen to our enemies, without accepting justification from the other side, then, of course…of course, Anton Antonovich, then we can suffer, Anton Antonovich, suffer innocently and for nothing.”

“Come, come, sir; and your indecent act to the detriment of the reputation of a noble young lady of a virtuous, respectable, and well-known family that had been your benefactor?”

“What action is that, Anton Antonovich?”

“Come, come, sir. And with regard to another young lady who, though poor, is of honorable foreign extraction, are you also ignorant of your laudable act, sir?”

“Excuse me, Anton Antonovich…be so good, Anton Antonovich, as to hear me out…”

“And your perfidious act and calumny of another person—accusing the other person of that in which your own little sin lay? eh? what is the name for that?”

“I didn’t drive him out, Anton Antonovich,” our hero said with trepidation, “and I didn’t teach Petrushka—that is, my man—any such thing, sir…He ate my bread, Anton Antonovich; he availed himself of my hospitality,” our hero added expressively and with deep feeling, so that his chin trembled slightly and tears were about to well up again.

“You, Yakov Petrovich, are only saying that he ate your bread,” Anton Antonovich replied, grinning, and slyness could be heard in his voice, so that something clawed at Mr. Goliadkin’s heart.

“Allow me to humbly ask you, Anton Antonovich: has his excellency been informed of this whole affair?”

“What else, sir! However, let me go now, sir. I have no time for you now…Today you’ll learn of everything you ought to know, sir.”

“For God’s sake, allow me one more little minute, Anton Antonovich…”

“You can tell me later, sir…”

“No, Anton Antonovich; I, you see, sir, just listen, Anton Antonovich…I am not a freethinker, Anton Antonovich, I shun freethinking; I am perfectly ready for my part, and I even slipped in this idea…”

“All right, sir, all right. I’ve already heard, sir…”

“No, sir, this you haven’t heard, Anton Antonovich. It’s something else, Anton Antonovich, it’s good, it’s truly good, and pleasant to hear…I slipped in this idea, as I explained above, Anton Antonovich, that what we have here is God’s design creating two perfect likenesses, and our beneficent superiors, seeing God’s design, gave shelter to both twins, sir. It’s good, Anton Antonovich. You can see that it’s very good, Anton Antonovich, and that I’m far from any freethinking. I accept our beneficent superiors as a father. Thus and so, beneficent superiors, say, and you sort of…the young man needs a job…Support me, Anton Antonovich, intercede for me, Anton Antonovich…I don’t…Anton Antonovich, for God’s sake, one more little word…Anton Antonovich…”