The breath caught in Mr Golyadkin’s chest; as though on wings, he flew after his foe, who was rapidly moving away. He felt within himself the presence of a terrible energy. Yet despite the presence of a terrible energy, Mr Golyadkin could have boldly assumed that at that particular moment even a simple mosquito, if only it could have survived in St Petersburg at such a time, would have broken him very comfortably with its wing. He also felt that he had gone downhill and completely lost his strength, that he was being carried along by some utterly special and external force, that it was not he himself walking at all, that, on the contrary, his legs were buckling and refusing to work. However, all might be arranged for the best. “It might be for the best – it might not,” thought Mr Golyadkin, almost choking from the speed of his running, “but that the business is lost, of that there can now be not the slightest doubt; that I’m utterly lost, that’s already obvious, definite, signed and sealed.” Despite all this, it was as if our hero had risen from the dead, as if he had survived a battle, as if he had seized a victory when he came to catch hold of his foe’s greatcoat as the latter was already setting one foot onto the droshky of the cabman he had just hired to take him somewhere. “My dear sir! My dear sir!” he cried to the ignoble Mr Golyadkin junior, whom he had finally overtaken. “My dear sir, I hope you…”
“No, please, don’t you go hoping anything,” replied Mr Golyadkin’s unfeeling foe evasively, standing with one foot on one of the droshky’s footboards and endeavouring with all his might to get the other one onto the other side of the vehicle, vainly waving it in the air, trying to maintain his balance and at the same time trying as hard as he could to free his greatcoat from Mr Golyadkin senior, while the latter, for his part, clung on to it with all the means granted him by nature.
“Yakov Petrovich! Just ten minutes…”
“I’m sorry, I haven’t the time, sir.”
“You must agree, Yakov Petrovich… please, Yakov Petrovich… for God’s sake, Yakov Petrovich… it’s like this – talk things over… on a bold footing… Just for a second, Yakov Petrovich!…”
“My friend, there isn’t time,” replied Mr Golyadkin’s falsely noble foe with discourteous familiarity, but in the guise of goodness of heart, “another time, believe me, with all my soul and with a clear conscience; but now – well, truly, it’s not possible.”
“Swine!” thought our hero.
“Yakov Petrovich!” he cried miserably. “I have never been your enemy. It’s wicked people who’ve described me unfairly… For my part, I’m prepared… Yakov Petrovich, would it suit you if you and I, Yakov Petrovich, just now popped in?… And there, with a clear conscience, as you rightly said just now, and in straightforward, noble language… into this coffee house: then everything will explain itself – there, Yakov Petrovich! Then everything will explain itself for sure…”
“Into the coffee house? Very well, sir. I don’t object, we’ll pop into the coffee house on just one condition, my joy, with a single condition – that there everything will explain itself. Like you said, my sweet,” said Mr Golyadkin junior, climbing down from the droshky and shamelessly patting our hero on the shoulder, “you’re such a great pal; for you, Yakov Petrovich, I’m prepared to go down a side street (as you were so good as to remark quite rightly in the old days, Yakov Petrovich). I mean, there’s a scallywag, truly, he does whatever he wants with a man!” continued Mr Golyadkin’s false friend with an easy little smile, fidgeting and twisting around him.
Far away from any main streets, the coffee house which the two Mr Golyadkins entered was at this moment completely empty. A rather fat German woman appeared at the counter just as soon as the ringing of the bell became audible. Mr Golyadkin and his unworthy foe went through into the second room, where a puffy little boy with closely cropped hair was busy with a bundle of firewood by the stove, struggling to restore the fire that was going out inside it. At Mr Golyadkin junior’s demand, chocolate was served.
“That’s a really tasty bit of skirt,” said Mr Golyadkin junior, winking roguishly at Mr Golyadkin senior.
Our hero blushed and held his tongue.
“Ah, yes, I’m sorry, I forgot. I know your taste. We’re partial to slim little Germans, sir; you and I, Yakov Petrovich, you truthful soul, so to speak, are partial to little Germans who are slim – albeit still not lacking charm, though; we rent apartments from them, compromise their morality, in return for Bier soup and Milch* soup we dedicate our hearts to them and give them various written undertakings – that’s what we do, you Faublas, you – you betrayer, you!”
Mr Golyadkin junior, in saying all this, was thus making an utterly worthless, albeit, however, villainously cunning allusion to a certain person of the female sex, twisting all around Mr Golyadkin, smiling at him in the guise of civility, and thus falsely showing him cordiality and joy at meeting with him. And remarking that Mr Golyadkin senior was by no means so stupid and by no means to such a degree lacking in education and fine manners as to believe him immediately, the ignoble man resolved to alter his tactics and conduct matters on an open footing. Straight away, having uttered his vile words, the fake Mr Golyadkin concluded by patting the respectable Mr Golyadkin on the shoulder with infuriating shamelessness and familiarity, and, not satisfied with this, he started playing around with him in a way completely improper in good society, namely, he conceived the idea of repeating his earlier vile action, that is, despite the resistance and little cries of the indignant Mr Golyadkin senior, of pinching him on the cheek. Our hero seethed at the sight of such dissipation, but held his tongue… for the time being, anyway.
“That’s the language of my enemies,” he finally replied, prudently restraining himself, in a quavering voice. At the same time our hero glanced round in disquiet at the door. The thing was that Mr Golyadkin junior was evidently in an excellent frame of mind and prepared to start on various little jokes, impermissible in a public place and, speaking in general, not tolerated by the laws of society or, principally, in company of exalted tone.
“Ah well, in that case, as you wish,” Mr Golyadkin junior retorted seriously to Mr Golyadkin senior’s idea, putting his empty cup, which he had drained with unseemly greed, down on the table. “Well, sir, there’s no need for me to be with you for long anyway… Well, sir, how are you getting on now, Yakov Petrovich?”
“There’s only one thing I can say to you, Yakov Petrovich,” replied our hero with sangfroid and dignity. “I have never been your enemy.”
“Hm.. Well, what about Petrushka, or whatever his name is? I think it’s Petrushka, isn’t it? Well, yes! Well, how’s he? All right? As before?”
“And he too is as before, Yakov Petrovich,” replied the somewhat surprised Mr Golyadkin senior. “I don’t know, Yakov Petrovich… for my part… a noble, a candid part, Yakov Petrovich, you must agree, Yakov Petrovich…”
“Yes, sir. But you know it yourself, Yakov Petrovich,” replied Mr Golyadkin junior in a quiet and expressive voice, thus falsely representing himself as a sorrowful man, filled with repentance and worthy of pity, “you know it yourself, our time’s a hard one… I’ll refer it to you, Yakov Petrovich; you’re an intelligent man and you’ll judge fairly,” Mr Golyadkin junior put in, basely flattering Mr Golyadkin senior. “Life isn’t a toy, you know it yourself, Yakov Petrovich,” Mr Golyadkin junior concluded meaningfully, thus pretending to be an intelligent and learned man capable of discussing elevated subjects.
“For my part, Yakov Petrovich,” replied our hero with animation, “for my part I despise beating about the bush and, speaking boldly and frankly, speaking in straightforward, noble language, and putting the whole business on a noble basis, I shall say to you, I can openly and nobly assert, Yakov Petrovich, that I am perfectly clean and that, you know it yourself, Yakov Petrovich, mutual delusion – anything can happen – society’s judgement, the opinion of the servile herd… I’m speaking frankly, Yakov Petrovich, anything can happen. I’ll say more, Yakov Petrovich, if you judge things like that, if you look at the business from a noble and elevated point of view, then I’ll say boldly, I’ll say without false shame, Yakov Petrovich, it will even be pleasant for me to discover that I was deluded, it will even be pleasant for me to confess to it. You know it yourself, you’re an intelligent and, what’s more, a noble man. Without shame, without false shame I’m prepared to confess to it…” concluded our hero with dignity and nobility.
“Destiny, fate! Yakov Petrovich… but let’s leave all that,” said Mr Golyadkin junior with a sigh. “Let’s better use the brief moments of our meeting for a more useful and pleasant conversation, as should be the case between two colleagues… Truly, somehow I’ve not managed to say two words to you in all this time… I’m not the one to blame for it, Yakov Petrovich…”
“And neither am I,” our hero interrupted heatedly, “and neither am I! My heart tells me, Yakov Petrovich, that I’m not the one to blame for all this. We’ll blame it all on fate, Yakov Petrovich,” added Mr Golyadkin senior in a perfectly conciliatory tone. His voice was beginning little by little to weaken and quaver.
“Well, then? How’s your health generally?” pronounced the errant one in a sweet voice.
“I’ve got a bit of a cough,” replied our hero even more sweetly.
“Take care. There are such epidemics all the time now, it’s a simple matter to catch quinsy, and, I must admit, I’m already starting to wrap up in flannel.”
“Indeed, Yakov Petrovich, it’s a simple matter to catch quinsy, sir… Yakov Petrovich!” pronounced our hero after a brief silence. “Yakov Petrovich! I can see I was deluded… I think with tenderness of those happy minutes we were able to spend together under my poor but, dare I say, welcoming roof…”
“That’s not what you wrote in your letter, though,” said the absolutely fair (but solely in this respect absolutely fair) Mr Golyadkin junior somewhat reproachfully.
“Yakov Petrovich! I was deluded… Now I see clearly that I was deluded in that wretched letter of mine too. Yakov Petrovich, I’m ashamed to look at you, Yakov Petrovich, you won’t believe it… Give me that letter so I can tear it up right in front of you, Yakov Petrovich, or if that is really quite impossible, I beg you to read it inversely – completely inversely, that is, with deliberately friendly intent, giving the inverse sense to all my letter’s words. I was deluded. Forgive me, Yakov Petrovich, I was completely… I was grievously deluded, Yakov Petrovich.”
“You’re saying?” asked Mr Golyadkin senior’s perfidious friend quite absent-mindedly and indifferently.
“I’m saying that I was utterly deluded, Yakov Petrovich, and that for my part, quite without false shame, I…”
“Ah, well, good! That’s very good, that you were deluded,” replied Mr Golyadkin junior rudely.
“I even had the idea, Yakov Petrovich,” added our candid hero in noble fashion, not noticing at all the terrible perfidy of his false friend, “I even had the idea that, here, so to speak, there had been created two absolutely similar…”
“Ah! That’s your idea!…”
Here Mr Golyadkin junior, known for his worthlessness, got up and seized his hat. Still not noticing the deceit, Mr Golyadkin senior got up too, smiling goodheartedly and nobly at his false friend, trying in his innocence to be nice and reassuring to him and thus to strike up a new friendship with him…
“Farewell, Your Excellency!” Mr Golyadkin junior suddenly exclaimed. Our hero shuddered, remarking in his enemy’s face something even Bacchic – and, solely in order just to get away, he put two fingers of his own hand into the hand the immoral one had stretched out to him; but here… here Mr Golyadkin junior’s shamelessness exceeded all degrees. Seizing the two fingers of Mr Golyadkin senior’s hand and having first shaken them, the unworthy one straight away, before Mr Golyadkin’s very eyes, made up his mind to repeat his shameless joke of the morning. The measure of human patience was exhausted.
He was already putting away in his pocket the handkerchief with which he had wiped his fingers when Mr Golyadkin senior came to his senses and dashed after him into the next room, into which, as was his nasty habit, his irreconcilable enemy had immediately made haste to slip away. As if nothing were amiss, he was just standing by the counter eating pies and very calmly, like a man of virtue, paying compliments to the German pastry cook. “Not in front of a lady,” thought our hero, and he too went up to the counter, beside himself with agitation.
“This bit of skirt really isn’t bad, is she – what do you think?” Mr Golyadkin junior once again began his improper outbursts, probably reckoning on Mr Golyadkin’s endless patience. And the fat German, for her part, since she evidently did not understand Russian, looked at her two customers with blank, glassy eyes and smiled amiably. Our hero flared up like fire at the words of Mr Golyadkin junior, who knew no shame, and, powerless to control himself, he finally threw himself at him with the evident intention of tearing him to pieces and thus finishing with him once and for all; but Mr Golyadkin junior, as was his vile custom, was already a long way off: he had bolted and was already on the porch. It goes without saying that after the first momentary paralysis that naturally came upon Mr Golyadkin senior, he came to his senses and rushed as fast as his legs would carry him after the offender, who was already getting onto the droshky whose driver had been waiting for him and had evidently agreed upon everything with him. But at this very moment the fat German, seeing the flight of the two customers, screamed and rang her bell for all she was worth. Our hero turned back and, all but on the wing and without demanding change, threw her down some money on account of both himself and the shameless one who had not paid, and then, despite the fact that he had dallied, he nevertheless managed, albeit again only on the wing, to catch up with his foe. Clinging on to the side of the droshky with all the means granted him by nature, our hero sped along the street for some time, trying to clamber onto the vehicle, which Mr Golyadkin junior defended with all his might. The cab driver, meanwhile, with whip and reins and foot and words was urging on his jaded nag, which, quite unexpectedly, taking the bit between its teeth, set off at a gallop, kicking out with its hind legs, as was its nasty habit, at every third stride. Finally our hero did actually manage to perch on the droshky, facing his foe and with his back pressed against the driver, with his knees pressed against the knees of the shameless one and with his right hand locked by every means onto the really nasty fur collar of his dissipated and most bitter foe’s greatcoat…
The enemies sped along and for some time were silent. Our hero could scarcely draw breath; the road was extremely bad, and jerking up and down at every stride, he was in danger of breaking his neck. Moreover, his bitter foe would still not agree to admit he was beaten, and was trying to push his adversary off into the dirt. To crown all this unpleasantness, it was the most awful weather. Flakes of snow were falling thickly and trying for their part in every way to somehow get inside the real Mr Golyadkin’s unbuttoned greatcoat. It was murky all around and not a thing could be seen. It was hard to make out where they were speeding to and along what streets… It seemed to Mr Golyadkin that something familiar was happening to him. For a moment he tried to remember whether he had had a presentiment of anything the day before… in a dream, for example… Finally his anguish reached the utmost pitch of its ultimate agony. Throwing his weight onto his merciless adversary, he was on the point of beginning to cry out. But his cry died away on his lips… There was a minute when Mr Golyadkin forgot everything and decided that all this was quite all right, and that it was somehow just happening in some inexplicable way, and to make a protest on account of it would be superfluous and an utterly lost cause… But suddenly, and almost at that very moment when our hero was concluding all this, an incautious sort of jolt altered the whole sense of the matter. Like a sack of flour, Mr Golyadkin toppled down from the droshky and went rolling away, quite rightly acknowledging at the moment of his fall that he really had got excited very inopportunely. Finally jumping up, he saw that they had arrived somewhere; the droshky was standing in the middle of somebody’s courtyard, and our hero noticed at first glance that this was the courtyard of that very building in which Olsufy Ivanovich lodged. At that same moment he noticed that his friend was already making his way onto the porch, probably to visit Olsufy Ivanovich. In his indescribable anguish he was about to rush off to overtake his foe, but, to his good fortune, he prudently had second thoughts in time. Not forgetting to settle up with the cab driver, Mr Golyadkin rushed into the street and started running for all he was worth, just following his nose. Flakes of snow were falling thickly as before; as before it was murky, wet and dark. Our hero did not walk, but flew, knocking over everyone in his way, men and women and children, and himself in his turn leaping aside from women, men and children. All around and in his wake fearful voices, screams and cries could be heard… But Mr Golyadkin seemed to be unconscious and did not mean to pay attention to anything… He came to his senses, however, when he was already by the Semyonovsky Bridge, yet even then only on account of managing to catch two women in a rather awkward way, knocking them down along with some things they were selling in the street, and at the same time toppling over himself. “It’s all right,” thought Mr Golyadkin, “this can all still quite possibly turn out for the best,” and straight away he put his hand into his pocket, wanting to get away with paying a silver rouble for the spilt gingerbread, apples, peas and all sorts. Suddenly a new light dawned on Mr Golyadkin; in his pocket he felt the letter handed to him in the morning by the scribe. Remembering, incidentally, that not far off there was an inn he knew, he ran into the inn, settled himself without a moment’s delay at a table illuminated by a tallow candle, and, paying no attention to anything, without listening to the waiter who had appeared to take his order, he broke the seal and began reading the following, which utterly stunned him:
Noble man, who suffers on my behalf and is forever dear to my heart!
I am suffering, I am perishing – save me! A slanderer, a schemer and a man known for his worthless tendencies has entangled me in his toils and I am lost! I have fallen! But he is odious to me, whereas you!… We have been separated, my letters to you have been intercepted, and this has all been done by the immoral one, exploiting his sole better quality – his resemblance to you. In any event, one can be unattractive and yet captivate with one’s intelligence, powerful emotion and pleasant manners… I am perishing! I am being married off by force, and scheming more than anyone here is my parent, my benefactor, State Councillor Olsufy Ivanovich, probably wishing to take over my place and my relations in good society… But I have made up my mind and I protest with all the means granted me by nature. Wait for me with your carriage today at exactly nine o’clock by the windows of Olsufy Ivanovich’s apartment. We shall be giving a ball again, and the handsome lieutenant will be there. I shall come out and we shall fly away. What is more, there are other workplaces where it is still possible to be of service to the fatherland. In any event, remember, my friend, that innocence is strong simply by being innocent. Farewell. Wait with the carriage by the entrance. I shall throw myself into the protection of your embrace at exactly two o’clock in the morning.
Yours to the grave,
Klara Olsufyevna
When he had finished reading the letter, our hero remained seemingly dumbstruck for several minutes. In terrible anguish, in terrible agitation, white as a sheet, with the letter in his hands, he walked around the room several times; to crown the calamity of his situation, our hero had failed to notice that he was at that present moment the object of exclusive attention for everybody in the room. Probably the disorder of his clothing, his uncontrolled agitation, his walking or, to put it better, running, his gesticulation with both hands, perhaps the few enigmatic words, said without thinking, in forgetfulness – all this was probably a very bad recommendation for Mr Golyadkin in the opinion of all the customers, and even the waiter himself was beginning to cast suspicious looks at him. Coming to, our hero noticed that he was standing in the middle of the room and was looking in an almost improper, impolite way at a little old man of most venerable appearance, who, having eaten and said a prayer to God before the icon, had settled down again and, for his part, could not take his eyes off Mr Golyadkin either. Our hero gazed around vaguely and noticed that everyone, absolutely everyone was looking at him with the most ominous and suspicious air. Suddenly, a retired military man with a red collar loudly demanded The Police Gazette. Mr Golyadkin gave a start and blushed: somehow by chance he lowered his eyes to the ground and saw that he was in unseemly clothing such as he should not have worn even at home, let alone in a public place. His boots, trousers and entire left side were covered in dirt, the stripe on his right trouser leg was torn off, and his tailcoat was even ripped in many places. In his inexhaustible anguish, our hero went up to the table at which he had been reading and saw that the inn servant was approaching him with a strange and insolently persistent sort of expression on his face. Flustered and completely deflated, our hero began examining the table at which he was now standing. On the table stood plates that had yet to be cleared away after somebody’s meal, there was a soiled napkin, and the knife, fork and spoon that had just been in use were still lying around. “Who can have been eating?” thought our hero. “Surely not me? But anything’s possible! Had a meal and didn’t even notice; what on earth am I to do?” Raising his eyes, Mr Golyadkin again saw beside him the waiter, who was about to say something to him.
“How much do I owe, old fellow?” asked our hero in a tremulous voice.
Loud laughter rang out all around Mr Golyadkin; the waiter himself gave a smirk. Mr Golyadkin realized that even here he had made a blunder and had done something terribly stupid. Realizing all this, he became so confused that he was forced to delve into his pocket for his handkerchief, probably so as to be doing something and not just standing there; but to his indescribable amazement and that of all the people surrounding him, instead of a handkerchief he brought out a phial with some sort of medicine, prescribed some four days before by Krestyan Ivanovich. “Medicines at the same chemist’s” flashed through Mr Golyadkin’s head… Suddenly he gave a start and almost screamed in horror. A new light was dawning… The ominous reflection of the dark, repulsive, reddish liquid shone into Mr Golyadkin’s eyes… The bottle fell from his hands and instantly shattered. Our hero screamed and leapt back a couple of paces from the spilt liquid… all his limbs were trembling and sweat was breaking out on his temples and forehead. “So my life is in danger!” Meanwhile, there had been movement and commotion in the room; everyone was surrounding Mr Golyadkin, everyone was talking to Mr Golyadkin, some were even grabbing hold of Mr Golyadkin. But our hero was dumb and immobile, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, feeling nothing… Finally, as if he tearing himself away, he rushed out of the inn, pushed aside each and every one who sought to restrain him, fell almost senseless onto the first cabman’s droshky he came across and flew off to his apartment.
In the entrance lobby of his apartment he met Mikheyev, the Ministry watchman, with an official letter in his hands. “I know, my friend, I know everything,” replied our worn-out hero in a weak, anguished voice, “it’s official…” In the letter there was indeed an order to Mr Golyadkin, signed by Andrei Filippovich, to hand over the files in his possession to Ivan Semyonovich. Taking the letter and giving the watchman ten copecks, Mr Golyadkin entered his apartment and saw that Petrushka was making ready and collecting into a single pile all his bits and pieces, all his things, evidently meaning to abandon Mr Golyadkin and leave him for Karolina Ivanovna, who had enticed him over as her replacement for Yevstafy.