The Double by Fyodor Dostoevsky

THE weather really seemed to be trying to improve. The wet snow, that had been swirling down in great masses, began to fall more and more thinly and at last almost ceased. The sky became visible, with a few small stars twinkling here and there. It was now no worse than wet, muddy, raw, and stifling, especially for Mr Golyadkin, who had hardly recovered his breath yet. His sodden overcoat, heavy with wet, made his whole body feel unpleasantly warm and damp, and its weight was almost breaking his already exhausted legs. A kind of convulsive shiver sent sharp pains shooting through his whole body, and exhaustion wrung a sickly sweat from him, so that, suitable as the occasion was, Mr Golyadkin even forgot to repeat with his usual firm resolution his favourite sentiment, that maybe, perhaps, somehow or other, probably, certainly, everything would turn out for the best. ‘However, this doesn't matter, for the time being,' our hero, still sturdy and undismayed, added as he wiped from his face the cold drops that spouted in all directions from the brim of his round hat, which was so sodden that it could absorb no more water. Adding that it still didn't matter at all, our hero tried sitting down on a fairly massive log lying near a pile of firewood in Olsufi Ivanovich's yard. Of course, there was no question now of even thinking about Spanish serenades and silken ladders, but it was absolutely necessary to find a secluded corner that would at least offer some comfort and concealment, if not much warmth. We may say in passing that he had been strongly tempted by the idea of that little corner between a cupboard and an old screen on Olsufi Ivanovich's landing, where previously, almost at the beginning of this veracious history, he had stood for two hours among all the domestic clutter, rubbish and worthless lumber. The fact is that Mr Golyadkin had already been standing and waiting for a full two hours this time as well, in Olsufi Ivanovich's courtyard. But there were certain inconveniences attached to that secluded and convenient little retreat that had not existed on the former occasion. The first was that the place had probably been marked, and certain precautions taken, since the scandal of Olsufi Ivanovich's ball; the second, that he must wait for a signal from Clara Olsufyevna, for some sort of signal there must certainly be. There always is, and, as he said, ‘We're not the first, and we shan't be the last.' At this point he very opportunely remembered a novel he had read a long time before, in which the heroine had given an agreed signal to her Alfred in exactly similar circumstances by tying a pink ribbon to her casement. But now, at night and in the St Petersburg climate, so well-known for its humidity and changeableness, a pink ribbon was out of the question, and indeed, to sum it up shortly, quite impossible. ‘No, this isn't a case of silken ladders,' our hero thought, ‘and the best thing is for me to stay here quietly out of sight. . I'd better stand just here,' and he chose a place in the yard, opposite the windows and near the stack of wood. Of course, there were always a lot of passers-by, like grooms and coachmen, in the yard, and besides there were wheels rattling and horses snorting and so on, but all the same it was a convenient place whether he was noticed or not, and just now, at any rate, it had the advantage that everything was more or less in shadow and nobody could see Mr Golyadkin, while he could see absolutely everything. The windows were brightly lit; Olsufi Ivanovich was having some sort of party. There was, however, no music to be heard as yet. ‘That means it's not a ball, so people must have come for some other kind of party,' thought our hero, his heart sinking. A thought struck him: ‘Was it today? Is there a mistake in the date? It's possible – anything is possible. That's where it is – anything at all is possible. . It's possible that the letter was written yesterday, and never reached me, and it didn't reach me because that scoundrel Petrushka took a hand in the game. Or it was written tomorrow, I mean I. that it was tomorrow I was to do it, to wait with the carriage, I mean.' Here our hero turned cold all over, and put his hand in his pocket for the letter, to look at it again. But to his astonishment the letter was not in his pocket, How is that?' whispered Mr Golyadkin, half-dead with horror. ‘Where did I leave it? Does this mean I've lost it? – that's all I needed!' he groaned at last. ‘What if it falls into the wrong hands? (Perhaps it already has done!) Oh lord, what will the consequences of that be? So bad that. . Oh, my abominable luck!' At this point Mr Golyadkin began to tremble like a leaf at the thought that his undeserving twin, having somehow got wind of the letter from Mr Golyadkin's enemies, had flung his coat over his head with the express purpose of purloining it. ‘What's more, he's purloining it as evidence,' thought our hero, ‘but why evidence?' After the first shock and stupor of horror, the blood surged back to Mr Golyadkin's head. Groaning and grinding his teeth, he clutched his burning brow, sank down to his log, and began trying to think of something. . But there was no coherence in his thoughts. Certain faces, and memories, some vague and some clear-cut, of certain long-forgotten incidents, passed through his mind, and the tunes of certain foolish songs rang in his ears. It was anguish, unbelievable anguish! ‘Oh God!' he thought, as he recovered a little, stifling a muffled sob, ‘oh God, give me fortitude of mind in the unfathomable depths of my misery! There can no longer be any doubt: I am utterly lost, I am finished; and this is all in the nature of things, it could not have been otherwise. To begin with, I've lost my job, inevitably, of course I have. . Well, let's suppose this other business gets settled somehow. Suppose the bit of money I have is enough for a new start; there'll have to be a new flat and a few sticks of furniture. . But first of all, I shan't have Petrushka. I can get on without the scoundrel. with the help of lodgers; fine! I can come in and go out when I like, and Petrushka won't grumble because I've come in late – that's it; that's why it's a good idea to have lodgers in the house. . Yes, well, suppose all that's all right; only how is it I keep talking about the wrong thing, absolutely the wrong thing?' At this point the thought of his present position recalled itself to Mr Golyadkin's memory. He looked round. ‘Oh my God! My God! What on earth am I talking about now?' he thought, utterly bewildered and clutching at his burning forehead.