…IT SEEMED THAT the weather wanted to change for the better. Indeed, the wet snow that had been pouring down till then in great heaps gradually began to thin out, thin out, and finally ceased almost entirely. The sky became visible, and little stars sparkled on it here and there. Only it was wet, dirty, damp, and suffocating, especially for Mr. Goliadkin, who even without that could barely catch his breath. From his wet and heavy overcoat some unpleasantly warm dampness penetrated all his limbs, and its weight bent his legs, which were badly weakened without that. Some feverish trembling went through his whole body with sharp and biting prickles; weariness made him break into a cold, sickly sweat, so that Mr. Goliadkin forgot to make use of this good opportunity to repeat, with his characteristic firmness and resolution, his favorite phrase, that perhaps all of this might somehow, certainly and unfailingly, work out and be settled for the best. “However, so far it’s all not so bad,” our sturdy and undaunted hero added, wiping from his face the drops of cold water that ran in all directions from the brim of his round hat, which was so sodden that it no longer repelled any water. Adding that it was all nothing, our hero tried to seat himself on a rather thick block of wood that lay near the pile of firewood in Olsufy Ivanovich’s courtyard. Of course, there was no point in thinking about Spanish serenades and silk ladders; but he did have to think about a cosy nook, maybe not very warm, but at least comfortable and concealed. He was strongly tempted, be it said in passing, by that same nook on the landing of Olsufy Ivanovich’s apartment where previously, almost at the beginning of this truthful story, our hero had stood through his two hours between the wardrobe and the old screens, among all sorts of useless household trash, litter, and junk. The thing was that now, too, Mr. Goliadkin had already been standing and waiting for a whole two hours in Olsufy Ivanovich’s courtyard. But with regard to that former cosy and comfortable nook there now existed certain inconveniences which had not existed previously. The first inconvenience was that this place had probably been spotted and certain preventive measures taken about it since the time of the incident at Olsufy Ivanovich’s last ball; and second, he had to wait for the prearranged signal from Klara Olsufyevna, because there certainly must have existed some such prearranged signal. It was always done that way, and “we’re not the first and we won’t be the last.” Just then Mr. Goliadkin incidentally had a fleeting recollection of some novel he had read long ago, in which the heroine gave a prearranged signal to Alfred in exactly the same circumstances by tying a pink ribbon to the window. But a pink ribbon now, at night, and in the St. Petersburg climate, known for its dampness and unreliability, could not enter the picture and, in short, was quite impossible. “No, it won’t come to silk ladders,” thought our hero. “I’d better stand here, just so, cosily and quietly…I’d better stand here, for instance,” and he chose a place in the courtyard, across from the windows, by the pile of stacked firewood. Of course, there were many other people walking about the courtyard, postilions, coachmen; besides, there was the rattling of wheels and the snorting of horses, and so on; but even so, the place was convenient; whether they noticed him or not, for the time being there was this advantage, that the thing was going on in the shadows, and nobody could see Mr. Goliadkin, while he himself could see decidedly everything. The windows were brightly lit; there was some solemn gathering at Olsufy Ivanovich’s. However, there was no music to be heard yet. “So it’s not a ball, and they’ve just gathered on some other occasion,” our hero thought with a partly sinking heart. “Was it today, though?” raced through his head. “Did I get the date wrong? It’s possible, anything’s possible…That’s just it, that anything’s possible…It’s possible that the letter was written yesterday and didn’t reach me, and it didn’t reach me because that rogue Petrushka got mixed up in it! Or it was written tomorrow, meaning that I…that it was all to be done tomorrow, that is, the waiting with the carriage…” Here our hero turned definitively cold and went to his pocket for the letter, so as to check. But, to his surprise, the letter was not in his pocket. “How’s that?” whispered the half-dead Mr. Goliadkin. “Where did I leave it? So I’ve lost it? Just what I needed!” he finally moaned in conclusion. “And what if it now falls into unfriendly hands? (And maybe it already has!) Lord! what will come of it! It will be something that…Ah, my detestable fate!” Here Mr. Goliadkin trembled like a leaf at the thought that maybe his indecent twin, as he threw the overcoat over his head, had precisely the aim of stealing the letter, which he had somehow gotten wind of from Mr. Goliadkin’s enemies. “What’s more, he intercepted it,” thought our hero, “and the evidence…but who cares about the evidence!…” After the first fit and stupefaction of terror, the blood rushed to Mr. Goliadkin’s head. With a moan and a gnashing of teeth, he clutched his hot head, sank onto his chunk of wood, and began thinking about something…But the thoughts somehow did not connect in his head. Some faces flashed in his memory, now vaguely, now sharply, some long-forgotten events, the melodies of some stupid songs kept coming into his head…Anguish, there was an unnatural anguish! “My God! My God!” our hero thought, somewhat recovered, stifling a muffled sobbing in his breast, “grant me firmness of spirit in the inexhaustible depths of my calamities! That I’ve perished, vanished completely—of that there’s no doubt, and it’s all in the order of things, for it couldn’t be any other way…First, I’ve lost my job, I’ve certainly lost it, there’s no way I could not have lost it…Well, let’s suppose that will get settled somehow. The bit of money I have, let’s suppose, will be enough to start with; I’ll rent some other apartment, a bit of furniture’s also needed…Petrushka won’t be with me. I can do without the rogue…rent a room; well, that’s good! I can come and go when I please, and Petrushka won’t grumble about my coming late—so there; that’s what’s good about renting a room…Well, suppose it’s all good; only why am I talking about something that’s not it, not it at all?” Here the thought of his present situation again lit up in Mr. Goliadkin’s memory. He looked around. “Oh, Lord God! Lord God! what am I talking about now?” he thought, totally at a loss and clutching his hot head…
“Might you be leaving soon, if you please, sir?” a voice spoke over Mr. Goliadkin. Mr. Goliadkin gave a start; but before him stood his cabby, also soaked and chilled to the bone, who, in his impatience and having nothing to do, had decided to visit Mr. Goliadkin behind the woodpile.
“I, my friend, am all right…soon, my friend, very soon, just wait a little…”
The cabby left, muttering under his nose. “What’s he muttering about?” Mr. Goliadkin thought through his tears. “I hired him for the evening, I’m sort of…within my rights now…so there! I hired him for the evening, and that’s the end of the matter. Even if he just stands there, it’s all the same. It’s as I will. I’m free to go, and free not to go. And that I’m now standing behind the woodpile—that, too, is quite all right…and don’t you dare say anything; I say, the gentleman wants to stand behind the woodpile, so he stands behind the woodpile…and it’s no taint to anybody’s honor—so there! So there, lady mine, if you’d like to know. Thus and so, I say, but in our age, lady mine, nobody lives in a hut. So there! In our industrial age, lady mine, you can’t get anywhere without good behavior, of which you yourself serve as a pernicious example…You say one must serve as a chief clerk and live in a hut on the seashore. First of all, lady mine, there are no chief clerks on the seashore, and second, you and I can’t possibly get to be a chief clerk. For, to take an example, suppose I apply, I show up—thus and so, as a chief clerk, say, sort of…and protect me from my enemy…and they’ll tell you, my lady, say, sort of…there are lots of chief clerks, and here you’re not at some émigrée Falbala’s, where you learned good behavior, of which you yourself serve as a pernicious example. Good behavior, my lady, means sitting at home, respecting your father, and not thinking of any little suitors before it’s time. Little suitors, my lady, will be found in due time! So there! Of course, one must indisputably have certain talents, to wit: playing the piano on occasion, speaking French, some history, geography, catechism, and arithmetic—so there!—but not more. Also cooking; cooking should unfailingly be part of every well-behaved young girl’s knowledge! But what do we have here? First of all, my beauty, my dearest madam, you won’t get away with it, you’ll be pursued, and then trumped into a convent. And then what, lady mine? Then what would you have me do? Would you have me follow some stupid novels, lady mine, and go to a neighboring hill, and dissolve in tears gazing at the cold walls of your confinement, and finally die, following the custom of certain bad German poets and novelists, is that it, my lady? Then, first of all, allow me to tell you in a friendly way that that is not how things are done, and, second, I’d have you and your parents soundly thrashed for giving you French books to read; for French books don’t teach anything good. There’s poison in them…noxious poison, lady mine! Or do you think, if I may be permitted to ask, do you think that, say, thus and so, we’ll run away with impunity, and sort of…there’ll be a cabin on the seashore for you and we’ll start cooing and discussing various feelings; and spend our whole life like that, in prosperity and happiness; and then there’ll be a youngling, so that we’ll sort of…say, thus and so, our parent and state councillor, Olsufy Ivanovich, here, say, a youngling has come along, so on this good occasion why don’t you lift your curse and bless the couple? No, my lady, again that’s not how things are done, and the first thing is that there’ll be no cooing, kindly don’t expect it. Nowadays, lady mine, a husband is the master, and a good and well-behaved wife must oblige him in everything. And gentilities, my lady, are not in favor nowadays, in our industrial age; say, the time of Jean-Jacques Rousseau{30} is past. Nowadays a husband comes home from work hungry—isn’t there a bite to eat, darling, he says, a glass of vodka, some pickled herring? So you, my lady, have to have vodka and herring ready at once. The husband relishes his snack and doesn’t even glance at you, but says: off to the kitchen, my little kitten, and see to dinner—and he kisses you maybe once a week and even that indifferently…There’s how we do it, lady mine! and even that, say, indifferently!…That’s how it will be, if we start reasoning like this, if it’s already gone so far that you begin looking at things this way…And what has it to do with me? Why, my lady, have you mixed me up in your caprices? ‘A beneficent man, say, suffering for my sake, and in all ways dear to my heart, and so on.’ First of all, lady mine, I’m not right for you, you know that yourself, I’m no expert at paying compliments, I don’t like uttering all those perfumed trifles for ladies, I’m not in favor of philanderers, and, I confess, my looks are not very winning. You won’t find any false boasting or shame in us, and we are confessing to you now in all sincerity. Say, so there, what we have is a direct and open character and common sense; we don’t get involved in intrigues. I am not an intriguer, and I’m proud of it—so there!…I go among good people without a mask, and to tell you all…”
Suddenly Mr. Goliadkin gave a start. The red and thoroughly sodden beard of his driver again peeked behind the woodpile…
“Right away, my friend; at once, you know, my friend; I’ll come at once, my friend,” Mr. Goliadkin answered in a trembling and weary voice.
The driver scratched the top of his head, then stroked his beard, then stepped another step forward…stopped, and looked mistrustfully at Mr. Goliadkin.
“Right away, my friend; you see, I.. my friend… I’ll sit here a little longer, my friend, you see, only a second longer…you see, my friend…”
“Might you not be going anywhere at all?” the driver said finally, accosting Mr. Goliadkin resolutely and definitively…
“No, my friend, I’ll come right away. You see, my friend, I’m waiting…”
“Yes, sir…”
“You see, my friend…what village are you from, my dear?”
“We’re house serfs…”
“And are they good masters?…”
“Sure enough…”
“So, my friend; stay here, my friend. You see, my friend, have you been in Petersburg long?”
“I’ve been driving for a year now…”
“And it suits you well, my friend?”
“Sure enough…”
“Yes, my friend, yes. Thank providence, my friend. You, my friend, should be looking for a good man. Good men have become rare, my dear; a good man will wash you, feed you, and give you a drink, that’s what he’ll do, my dear…And sometimes you see that tears even pour through gold, my friend…you behold a lamentable example of that; so there, my dear…”
The cabby looked as if he felt sorry for Mr. Goliadkin.
“If you please, I’ll wait, sir. Might you be waiting long, sir?”
“No, my friend, no; you know, I sort of…I’m not going to keep waiting, my dear. What do you think, my friend? I’ll rely on you. I’m not going to keep waiting here…”
“Might you not be going anywhere at all?”
“No, my friend; no, but I’ll thank you well, my dear…so there. What do I owe you, my dear?”
“The same as what we agreed on, sir, if you please. I waited a long time, sir; you wouldn’t offend a man, sir.”
“Well, here you are, my dear, here you are.” Mr. Goliadkin gave the cabby a whole six silver roubles and, resolving seriously not to lose any more time, that is, to get away safe and sound, the more so as the affair was definitively resolved and the cabby had been dismissed, and therefore there was nothing more to wait for, he left the yard, went through the gates, turned left, and without looking back, breathless and rejoicing, broke into a run. “Maybe it will still work out for the best,” he thought, “and this way I’ve avoided trouble.” Indeed, Mr. Goliadkin somehow suddenly felt an extraordinary lightness of heart. “Ah, if only it would work out for the best!” thought our hero, though hardly believing in his own words. “So I’ll sort of…” he thought. “No, I’d better do it like this, and the other way…Or maybe I’d better do it this way?…” Thus doubting and seeking for the key and the solution to his doubts, our hero ran as far as the Semyonovsky Bridge, and having reached the Semyonovsky Bridge, he decided sensibly and definitively to go back. “That will be better,” he thought. “I’d better look at it the other way, that is, like this. Here’s what I’ll do—I’ll be an onlooker from outside, and that’s the end of it; say, I’m an onlooker, an outsider, and only that; and whatever happens there—it’s not my fault. So there! That’s how it’s going to be now!”
Having decided to go back, our hero actually went back, the more readily in that, according to his happy thought, he had now established himself as a complete outsider. “And it’s better this way: you’re not answerable for anything, and you’ll see what follows…so there!” That is, the calculation was most sure, and that was the end of it. Calming himself, he again got into the peaceful shadow of his comforting and protective woodpile and began looking attentively at the windows. This time he did not have to watch and wait for long. Suddenly, in all the windows at once, a strange commotion manifested itself, figures flashed, curtains opened, whole groups of people crowded to Olsufy Ivanovich’s windows, all of them searching and looking for something in the courtyard. From the safety of his woodpile, our hero in his turn also began watching the general commotion with curiosity and craning his neck to right and left concernedly, at least as far as the short shadow of the woodpile that covered him would permit. Suddenly he was dumbstruck, gave a start, and almost sat down where he was from terror. He fancied—in short, he fully figured out—that they were not searching for something or somebody, they were quite simply searching for him, Mr. Goliadkin. Everybody is looking his way, everybody is pointing his way. It was impossible to flee: they would see him…The dumbstruck Mr. Goliadkin pressed himself as close as he could to the woodpile, and only then did he notice that the treacherous shadow had betrayed him, that it did not cover all of him. Our hero would now have agreed with the greatest pleasure to crawl into some mouse hole between the logs and sit there peaceably, if only it were possible. But it was decidedly impossible. In his agony he finally began to stare resolutely and directly at all the windows at once; that was better…And suddenly he burned with the uttermost shame. He was completely noticed, they all noticed him at once, they all waved their hands at him, they all nodded their heads at him, they all called to him; now several vent panes clicked and opened; several voices at once shouted something to him…“I’m surprised these girls aren’t thrashed starting from childhood,” our hero murmured to himself, quite at a loss. Suddenly he (we know who) ran down the porch in nothing but his uniform, hatless, out of breath, bustling, mincing and hopping, perfidiously proclaiming his terrible joy at finally seeing Mr. Goliadkin.
“Yakov Petrovich,” the man known for his uselessness chirped. “Yakov Petrovich, you here? You’ll catch cold. It’s cold here, Yakov Petrovich. Please come inside!”
“Yakov Petrovich! No, sir, I’m all right, Yakov Petrovich,” our hero murmured in a humble voice.
“No, sir, impossible, Yakov Petrovich: they beg, they humbly beg, they’re waiting for us. ‘Make us happy,’ they say, ‘bring Yakov Petrovich here.’ That’s what, sir.”
“No, Yakov Petrovich; you see, I’d do better…It would be better if I went home, Yakov Petrovich…” our hero said, roasting on a slow fire and freezing from shame and terror, all at the same time.
“No, no, no, no!” the repulsive man chirped. “No, no, no, not for anything! Come on!” he said resolutely and dragged Mr. Goliadkin Sr. towards the porch. Mr. Goliadkin Sr. did not want to go at all; but since everyone was watching, and it would have been stupid to resist and protest, our hero went—however, it is impossible to say he went, because he himself decidedly did not know what was happening to him. But never mind, he did it anyway!
Before our hero had time to straighten himself and come to his senses, he was in the reception room. He was pale, disheveled, in shreds; with dull eyes he looked around at the whole crowd—terrible! That room, all the rooms—all, all of them were filled to overflowing. There were multitudes of people, a whole orangery of ladies; all this clustered around Mr. Goliadkin, all this strained towards Mr. Goliadkin, all this bore Mr. Goliadkin on its shoulders, he noticed quite clearly that he was being urged in a certain direction. “It’s not towards the door,” raced through Mr. Goliadkin’s head. Indeed, he was not being urged towards the door, but straight to Olsufy Ivanovich’s easy chair. On one side of the chair stood Klara Olsufyevna, pale, languid, sad, though magnificently attired. Especially striking to Mr. Goliadkin’s eyes were the little white flowers in her black hair, which made an excellent effect. Vladimir Semyonovich kept himself on the other side of the chair, in a black tailcoat, with his new decoration in the buttonhole. Mr. Goliadkin was being taken under the arms and, as was said above, straight to Olsufy Ivanovich—on one side Mr. Goliadkin Jr., who assumed an extremely well-behaved and well-intentioned air, which caused our hero no end of joy, while on the other side he was escorted by Andrei Filippovich with a most solemn look on his face. “What can this be?” thought Mr. Goliadkin. But when he saw that he was being led to Olsufy Ivanovich, it was as if lightning suddenly flashed. The thought of the intercepted letter flew into his head…In inexhaustible agony, our hero stood before Olsufy Ivanovich’s chair. “What am I to do now?” he thought to himself. “Of course, it must all be on a bold footing, that is, with frankness, but not without nobility; say, thus and so, and so on.” But what our hero evidently feared did not happen. Olsufy Ivanovich seemed to receive Mr. Goliadkin very well and, though he did not offer him his hand, at least shook his gray-haired and respect-inspiring head as he looked at him—shook it with some sort of solemnly mournful but at the same time benevolent air. So at least it seemed to Mr. Goliadkin. It even seemed to him that a tear glistened in Olsufy Ivanovich’s dim eyes; he looked up and saw that a little tear also seemed to be glistening on the eyelashes of Klara Olsufyevna, who was standing right there, and that there also seemed to be something similar in Vladimir Semyonovich’s eyes—that, finally, the calm and imperturbable dignity of Andrei Filippovich was tantamount to the general tearful sympathy—that, finally, the young man who once greatly resembled an important councillor was now weeping bitterly, taking advantage of the present moment…Or maybe all this only seemed so to Mr. Goliadkin because he himself had turned quite tearful and clearly felt the hot tears running down his cold cheeks…Ina voice filled with sobbing, reconciled with people and fate, and feeling great love at the present moment not only for Olsufy Ivanovich, not only for all the guests taken together, but even for his pernicious twin, who now, evidently, was not pernicious at all and not even Mr. Goliadkin’s twin, but a total outsider and an extremely amiable man in himself, our hero made as if to address Olsufy Ivanovich with a touching outpouring of his soul; but from the fullness of all that had accumulated in him, he was unable to explain anything at all, but only pointed silently with a highly eloquent gesture to his heart…Finally, Andrei Filippovich, probably wishing to spare the gray-haired old man’s feelings, led Mr. Goliadkin a little aside and left him, seemingly, however, in a completely independent position. Smiling, murmuring something under his nose, slightly perplexed, but in any case almost completely reconciled with people and fate, our hero began to make his way somewhere through the dense mass of guests. They all gave way to him, they all looked at him with a sort of strange curiosity and a sort of inexplicable, mysterious sympathy. Our hero went into the next room—the same attention everywhere; he dimly heard how the whole crowd pressed after him, noticing his every step, discussing something highly engaging among themselves, wagging their heads, talking, argling, bargling, and whispering. Mr. Goliadkin would have liked very much to know what they were all argling and bargling and whispering about. Turning around, our hero noticed Mr. Goliadkin Jr. nearby. Feeling a need to take his arm and draw him aside, Mr. Goliadkin insistently begged the other Yakov Petrovich to assist him in all his future undertakings and not to abandon him on critical occasions. Mr. Goliadkin Jr. nodded gravely and firmly pressed Mr. Goliadkin Sr.’s hand. The heart in our hero’s breast throbbed from an excess of feelings. However, he was suffocating, he felt hemmed in, hemmed in; all those eyes turned on him were somehow oppressing and crushing him…Mr. Goliadkin caught a fleeting glimpse of the councillor who wore a wig. The councillor looked at him with a stern, searching gaze not at all softened by the general sympathy…Our hero decided to go straight to him, smile at him, and immediately have a talk with him; but the thing somehow did not work out. For a moment, Mr. Goliadkin almost became oblivious, lost both memory and feeling…Recovering, he noticed that he was turning about in a wide circle of surrounding guests. Suddenly someone called Mr. Goliadkin from the next room; the call passed at once through the whole crowd. Everything became agitated, noisy, everybody rushed to the doors of the first room; our hero was almost carried out, and the hard-hearted councillor in the wig turned up right beside Mr. Goliadkin. Finally, he took him by the arm and sat him down next to himself and across from Olsufy Ivanovich’s seat, though at a rather significant distance from him. Everyone who had been in the rooms sat down in several rows around Mr. Goliadkin and Olsufy Ivanovich. Everything became hushed and subdued, everyone preserved a solemn silence, everyone kept glancing at Olsufy Ivanovich, obviously expecting something not entirely ordinary. Mr. Goliadkin noticed that the other Mr. Goliadkin and Andrei Filippovich had placed themselves next to Olsufy Ivanovich’s chair and also directly across from the councillor. The silence continued; they really were expecting something. “Just as in some family, when somebody’s about to go on a long journey; all that remains now is to stand up and pray,” thought our hero. Suddenly an extraordinary commotion arose and interrupted all of Mr. Goliadkin’s reflections. Something long expected occurred. “He’s coming, he’s coming!” passed through the crowd. “Who’s coming?” passed through Mr. Goliadkin’s head, and he shuddered from some strange sensation. “It’s time,” said the councillor, looking attentively at Andrei Filippovich. Andrei Filippovich, for his part, looked at Olsufy Ivanovich. Olsufy Ivanovich nodded his head gravely and solemnly. “Let us stand,” said the councillor, getting Mr. Goliadkin to his feet. Everybody stood up. Then the councillor took Mr. Goliadkin Sr. by the arm, and Andrei Filippovich took Mr. Goliadkin Jr., and they both solemnly brought together the two completely identical men, in the midst of the crowd that surrounded them and was turned towards them in expectation. Our hero looked around in perplexity, but was immediately stopped and directed towards Mr. Goliadkin Jr., who held out his hand to him. “They want us to make peace,” thought our hero, and, deeply moved, he held out his hand to Mr. Goliadkin Jr.; then, then he held out his face to him. The other Mr. Goliadkin did the same…Here it seemed to Mr. Goliadkin Sr. that his perfidious friend was smiling, that he winked fleetingly and slyly to the crowd around them, that there was something sinister in the face of the indecent Mr. Goliadkin Jr., that he even made a grimace at the moment of his Judas’s kiss…Mr. Goliadkin’s head rang, his eyes went dark; it seemed to him that a multitude, an endless string of completely identical Goliadkins was bursting noisily through all the doors of the room; but it was too late…A ringing, treacherous kiss resounded, and…
Here a quite unexpected circumstance occurred…The door of the reception room opened noisily, and on the threshold appeared a man the very sight of whom turned Mr. Goliadkin to ice. His feet became rooted to the ground. A cry died in his constricted breast. However, Mr. Goliadkin had known it all beforehand and had long anticipated something like it. The stranger gravely and solemnly approached Mr. Goliadkin…Mr. Goliadkin knew this figure very well. He had seen it, had seen it very often, had seen it that same day…The stranger was a tall, solidly built man, in a black tailcoat, with an important cross on his neck, and endowed with bushy, very black side-whiskers; all he lacked to complete the resemblance was a cigar in his mouth…Yet the stranger’s gaze, as has already been said, froze Mr. Goliadkin with terror. With a grave and solemn mien, the fearsome man came up to the lamentable hero of our story…Our hero offered him his hand; the stranger took his hand and pulled him with him…Our hero looked around with a lost, mortified face…
“This, this is Krestyan Ivanovich Rutenspitz, doctor of medicine and surgery, your old acquaintance, Yakov Petrovich!” someone’s disgusting voice chirped right in Mr. Goliadkin’s ear. He turned: it was Mr. Goliadkin’s twin, repulsive in the mean qualities of his soul. An indecent, sinister joy shone in his face; with delight he rubbed his hands, with delight he turned his head around, with delight he minced among all and sundry; he seemed ready to begin dancing straightaway from delight; finally, he leaped forward, snatched a candle from one of the servants, and went ahead, lighting the way for Mr. Goliadkin and Krestyan Ivanovich. Mr. Goliadkin clearly heard how all that was in the reception room rushed after him, how they all pressed and jostled each other, and all together loudly began repeating behind Mr. Goliadkin: “Never mind; don’t be afraid, Yakov Petrovich, it’s just your old friend and acquaintance, Krestyan Ivanovich Rutenspitz…” Finally they went out to the brightly lit main stairway; on the stairway there was also a mass of people; the doors to the porch were noisily flung open, and Mr. Goliadkin found himself on the porch along with Krestyan Ivanovich. At the entrance stood a carriage harnessed with four horses, which were snorting with impatience. The gleeful Mr. Goliadkin Jr. ran down the steps in three bounds and opened the carriage door himself. With an admonitory gesture, Krestyan Ivanovich invited Mr. Goliadkin to get in. However, there was no need for an admonitory gesture; there were enough people to help him in…Sinking with terror, Mr. Goliadkin turned to look back: the entire brightly lit stairway was strung with people; curious eyes looked at him from everywhere; Olsufy Ivanovich himself presided from his easy chair on the upper landing, and watched what was happening with attention and strong concern. Everyone was waiting. A murmur of impatience passed through the crowd when Mr. Goliadkin looked back.
“I hope there’s nothing here…nothing reprehensible…or that might be cause for severity…and the attention of everyone regarding my official relations?” our hero said, at a loss. Talk and noise arose around him; everyone wagged their heads in the negative. Tears gushed from Mr. Goliadkin’s eyes.
“In that case, I’m ready…I fully entrust…and hand over my fate to Krestyan Ivanovich…”
Mr. Goliadkin had only just said that he fully handed over his fate to Krestyan Ivanovich, when a terrible, deafening, joyful shout burst from everyone around him, and its sinister echo passed through the whole expectant crowd. Here Krestyan Ivanovich on the one side and Andrei Filippovich on the other took Mr. Goliadkin under the arms and began putting him into the carriage; his double, as was his mean custom, helped from behind. The unfortunate Mr. Goliadkin Sr. cast a last glance at everyone and everything and, trembling like a kitten that has been doused with cold water—if the comparison be permitted—got into the carriage. Krestyan Ivanovich at once got in behind him. The carriage door slammed, the whip cracked over the horses, the horses tore the vehicle from its place…everything rushed after Mr. Goliadkin. The piercing, furious shouts of all his enemies came rolling after him in the guise of a farewell. For a certain time faces still flashed around the carriage that was bearing Mr. Goliadkin away; but they gradually dropped behind, dropped behind, and finally disappeared completely. Mr. Goliadkin’s indecent twin held out longer than anyone else. His hands in the pockets of his green uniform trousers, he ran along with a pleased look, skipping now on one side of the carriage, now on the other; sometimes, taking hold of the window frame and hanging on, he would thrust his head through the window and blow Mr. Goliadkin little farewell kisses; but he, too, began to tire, appeared more and more rarely, and finally disappeared completely. The heart in Mr. Goliadkin’s breast ached dully; a hot stream of blood rushed to his head; he gasped for air, he wanted to unbutton himself, to bare his chest, to pour snow and cold water on it. He fell, finally, into oblivion…When he came to, he saw that the horses were bearing him along some unfamiliar road. To right and left a forest blackened; it felt desolate and deserted. Suddenly he went dead: two fiery eyes gazed at him from the darkness, and those two eyes shone with sinister, infernal glee. This was not Krestyan Ivanovich! Who was it? Or was it him? Him! It was Krestyan Ivanovich, only not the former, but another Krestyan Ivanovich! This was a terrible Krestyan Ivanovich!…
“Krestyan Ivanovich, I…I seem to be all right, Krestyan Ivanovich,” our hero began timidly and with trepidation, wishing to appease the terrible Krestyan Ivanovich at least somewhat with submissiveness and humility.
“You vill haf a gofernment apartment, mit firewood, mit licht, und mit serfices, vich you don’t deserf,” Krestyan Ivanovich’s reply came sternly and terribly, like a verdict.
Our hero cried out and clutched his head. Alas! he had long foreseen it!