The Double by Fyodor Dostoevsky

THE day on which was celebrated the festival of the birth of Clara Olsufyevna, only daughter of State Councillor Berendeyev, at one rime Mr Golyadkin's patron – the day, marked by a magnificent and splendid formal dinnerparty, a dinnerparty such as had not been seen for a long time within the walls of any of the flats near Izmailovsky Bridge and round about, occupied by high-ranking officials – a dinner, more like some Belshazzar's feast than a dinner, which called to mind something Babylonian with its brilliance, luxury, and tastefulness, its Veuve Clicquot, its oysters and its fruits from Eliseyev's and Kilyutin's, all its well-fed little ladies and representatives of the higher grades of the Government service – this red-letter day, distinguished by so festive a dinner, ended with a brilliant ball, a small family ball, but brilliant all the same in respect of taste, culture, and good breeding. Balls like this do take place, of course, I entirely agree, but they are rare. Balls like this, more like family rejoicings than balls, can only be given in houses like that, for example, of State Councillor Berendeyev. I will go further: I doubt whether even all State Councillors could give balls like it. Oh, if only I were a poet! – I mean, of course, one of at least the quality of Homer or Pushkin (with less talent than that one can't thrust one's oar in) – I would certainly have painted the whole of these highly festive celebrations for you, Reader, with glowing colours and a broad brush. Nay, more: I should have begun my poem with the dinner, and applied myself with special diligence to that solemn and yet joyful moment when the first wine-cup was raised in honour of the queen of the festivities. I should have depicted for you first the guests, plunged in silence and expectancy, more like Demosthenian eloquence than silence. Then I should have portrayed Andrey Philippovich, the oldest of the guests and indeed one with some claim to the first place among them, adorned with grey hairs and with the Orders befitting those grey hairs, rising to his feet and raising higher than his head a goblet of sparkling wine – wine specially brought from a distant kingdom for drinking on such occasions, a wine more like the nectar of the gods than a mere wine. I should have pictured for you the guests and the fortunate parents of the queen of the festivities, following the example of Andrey Philippovich in raising their glasses, and turning on him eyes full of anticipation. I should have pictured for you how the Andrey Philippovich so frequently referred to let a tear fall into his glass before he expressed his felicitations and good wishes, then proposed the toast, and drank it. . But I confess, humbly confess, I could never have described all the majesty of that moment when the queen of the festivities herself, Clara Olsufyevna, glowing like a fresh-picked rose with a blush of modesty and happiness, fell, overcome by her feelings, into the embrace of her tender mother, how the tender mother dissolved in tears and how upon this the father himself burst into sobs – the venerable old man and State Councillor, Olsufi Ivanovich, who had been deprived of the use of his legs by his long service and been rewarded by the fates for his zeal and diligence with a nice little sum of money, and a house, and a country estate, and a beauty for a daughter, sobbed like a child and proclaimed through his tears that His Excellency was a man of the greatest benevolence. I could not, no, I really could not, depict for you the universal stirrings of emotion inevitably following on that moment – stirrings that found their expression in the conduct of one young registry clerk (who was at that moment more like a State Councillor than a Registrar) who, listening to Andrey Philippovich, even shed a few tears himself. In his turn Andrey Phihppovich did not in the least resemble in that solemn moment a Collegiate Councillor and the head of a department – no, he seemed more like something else. . I am not sure exactly what, but not a Collegiate Councillor. He was something higher. Finally. oh, why do I not possess the secret of the lofty style, a powerful, ceremonial style, for the portrayal of all those beautiful and edifying moments of human life, which might have been designed to demonstrate that there are occasions when the virtuous triumph over disloyalty, free-thinking, vice, and envy? I will say nothing, but – what will be better than any kind of oratory – silently point out to you that fortunate stripling, entering upon his twenty-sixth year, Vladimir Semyonovich, Andrey Philippovich's nephew, who has risen in his turn from his seat and is in his turn proposing a toast, and on whom are directed the tearful eyes of the parents of the queen of the festivities, the proud eyes of Andrey Phihppovich, the shy eyes of the queen of the festivities herself, the enthusiastic eyes of the guests, and even the suitably envious eyes of several of the brilliant stripling's young colleagues. I will say nothing, although I cannot refrain from remarking that everything in that youth, more like an old man than a stripling – speaking in a sense favourable to him – everything, from his blooming cheeks to the very rank of Assessor that he bore, everything in that festive moment all but proclaimed aloud in so many words the heights to which good behaviour could raise a man! I will not describe how, finally, Anton Antonovich Setochkin, the head of a subsection, a colleague of Andrey Philippovich's and formerly of Olsufi Ivanovich's, and in addition an old friend of the family's and Clara Olsufyevna's godfather – a small gentleman hoary with age, proposing a toast in his turn, crowed like a cock and recited amusing doggerel; or how, with such decorous obliviousness to decorum, if I may so express myself, he made the whole company laugh till they cried, and Clara Olsufyevna, at her parents' behest, gave him a kiss for being so entertaining and so nice. I will only say that at length the guests, who after such a dinner naturally felt towards one another as friends and brothers, rose from the table; the old gentlemen and solid citizens then, after a short time spent in friendly conversation and even some outspoken remarks, expressed of course very amiably and decorously, passed sedately into the next room and, without losing a golden moment, arranged themselves in groups of four and sat down, full of self-satisfaction, at tables covered with green baize; that the ladies, seating themselves in the drawing-room, all became suddenly very friendly and began discussing various dress-materials; that finally the highly esteemed host himself, who had lost the use of his legs in true and loyal service and been rewarded in all the ways mentioned above, began moving about on crutches among his guests, supported by Vladimir Semyonovich and Clara Olsufyevna, and that, having also developed a sudden amiability, he decided to improvise a small and modest ball, in spite of the expense; that to this end an efficient young man (the same who at dinner had seemed more like a State Councillor than a stripling) was sent out for musicians; that subsequently a band of no less than eleven instrumentalists arrived, and that finally, at exactly half-past eight, the inviting strains of a French quadrille and various other dances began to be heard. . I need hardly say that my pen is too feeble, languid, and dull for the proper description of the ball improvised with such extreme amiability by the hoary-headed host. Besides, how, I ask, how can I, the humble reporter of Mr Golyadkin's adventures, curious enough in their own way though they may be – how can I depict that uncommon and seemly compound of beauty, brilliance, decorum, extraordinary gaiety, amiable solidity and solid amiability, playfulness, joy, and all the gambols and laughter of all the high official ladies, more like fairies than ladies – speaking in a sense favourable to them – with their lily-white shoulders, their rosy-pink faces, their airily slender waists, their playfully twinkling, homeopathically (speaking in the high style) tiny feet? Finally, how shall I depict for you those splendid partners of high official standing, cheerful and sedate, youthful and staid, joyful and becomingly melancholy, smoking a pipe in the intervals between dances in a small, remote, green room, or not smoking between dances – partners every one from the first to the last bearing a distinguished name and a high rank in the service – partners deeply imbued with a sense of elegance and a feeling of proper pride, partners for the most part speaking French to the ladies or, if Russian, Russian full of expressions of the very highest tone, compliments, and profound sentiments – partners who only in the smoking-room might perhaps permit themselves some affable lapses from language of the highest tone, certain sentences of friendly and good-humoured familiarity, such as ‘You old so-and-so, Petka, you were kicking up your heels famously in the polka,' or, ‘You dog, you, Vasya, you gave your partner a fine time of it, didn't you?' For all this, as I had the honour of explaining to you above, Reader, my pen is inadequate, and therefore I am silent. Let us rather turn to Mr Golyadkin, the real and sole hero of our highly veracious story.