Chapter I
It was nearly eight o’clock in the morning when the titular counselor Yakov Petrovich Golyadkin awoke after a long sleep, yawned, stretched, and finally opened his eyes completely. For a couple of minutes, however, he lay motionless in his bed, like a man not yet fully certain whether he was awake or still asleep, whether everything happening around him now was reality and actuality, or merely a continuation of his disorderly, sleeping fantasies. Soon, though, Mr. Golyadkin’s senses began to receive their habitual, ordinary impressions more clearly and distinctly. The greenish-dingy, sooty, dusty walls of his little room, his mahogany chest of drawers, the mahogany-style chairs, the table painted red, the reddish, oilcloth Turkish sofa with little green flowers, and finally, the clothes he had hastily taken off the night before and thrown in a heap on the sofa, all looked back at him familiarly. Finally, the gray autumn day, cloudy and dirty, peered into his room through the dull window with such an angry and sour grimace that Mr. Golyadkin could no longer doubt that he was not in some mythical thirtieth kingdom, but in the city of St. Petersburg, the capital, on Shestilavochnaya Street, on the fourth floor of a very large, substantial building, in his own apartment. Having made this important discovery, Mr. Golyadkin convulsively closed his eyes, as if regretting the recent sleep and wishing to bring it back for a moment. But a minute later he leaped out of bed with a single bound, having probably landed at last upon the idea around which his scattered thoughts, not yet brought into proper order, had been revolving.
Jumping out of bed, he immediately ran to the small, round looking-glass standing on the chest of drawers. Although the sleepy, half-blind, and rather balding figure reflected in the mirror was of such an utterly insignificant kind that it did not at first glance arrest anyone’s exclusive attention, its owner seemed completely satisfied with everything he saw in the glass. “That would be a fine thing,” said Mr. Golyadkin in an undertone, “that would be a fine thing if I were to be found wanting in some respect today, if, for example, something were amiss—if some intrusive pimple had popped up, or some other unpleasantness had occurred; however, for now, not bad; for now, everything is going well.” Very pleased that everything was going well, Mr. Golyadkin put the mirror back in its place, and, despite being barefoot and still wearing the attire he usually slept in, he ran to the window and began earnestly searching for something in the courtyard of the building onto which his apartment windows looked. Apparently, what he found in the courtyard also completely satisfied him; his face brightened with a smug smile.
Then—peering first behind the partition into the little room of Petrushka, his valet, and making sure Petrushka was not in it—he tiptoed to the table, unlocked a drawer, felt around in the very back corner of that drawer, and finally pulled out from under old yellowed papers and sundry rubbish a worn green purse. He cautiously opened it and carefully and pleasurably peered into its furthest, most secret pocket. Probably the wad of little green, gray, blue, red, and various brightly colored notes also looked back at Mr. Golyadkin very kindly and approvingly: with a beaming face, he placed the open purse on the table before him and vigorously rubbed his hands as a sign of the greatest pleasure. Finally, he pulled out his comforting wad of government assignation notes, and, counting them for what was probably the hundredth time since yesterday, began to recount them, meticulously rubbing each sheet between his thumb and forefinger.
“Seven hundred and fifty rubles in assignation notes!” he finally concluded in a half-whisper. “Seven hundred and fifty rubles… a fine sum! That is a pleasant sum,” he continued in a trembling voice, a little weakened by pleasure, squeezing the wad in his hands and smiling knowingly, “that is a very pleasant sum! A pleasant sum for anyone! I would like to see the man now for whom this sum would be an insignificant sum? Such a sum can take a man far…”
“But what is this?” thought Mr. Golyadkin, “where is Petrushka?” Still wearing the same attire, he looked behind the partition a second time. Petrushka was still not behind the partition, and only the samovar placed on the floor was fuming, boiling over, and losing its temper, continuously threatening to boil over, and quickly chattering something in its obscure language, R-ing and lisping at Mr. Golyadkin—probably something to the effect of, Please, good people, take me, for I am completely ready and waiting.
“The devil take him!” thought Mr. Golyadkin. “That lazy beast could finally drive a man beyond the limits; where is he roaming?” In justifiable indignation, he went into the hall, which consisted of a small corridor, at the end of which was the door to the entrance-hall. He opened this door a tiny bit and saw his servant, surrounded by a decent crowd of lackey, household, and casual rabble. Petrushka was telling something; the others were listening. Neither the topic of the conversation nor the conversation itself seemed to please Mr. Golyadkin. He immediately called Petrushka and returned to the room completely dissatisfied, even upset. “That beast is ready to sell a man for a mere trifle, and even more so his master,” he thought to himself, “and he has sold me, he certainly has sold me, I’m ready to bet he sold me for a kopeck. Well, what is it?”
“The livery has been brought, sir.” “Put it on and come here.”
Putting on the livery, Petrushka entered his master’s room, smiling foolishly. He was dressed strangely in the extreme. He wore a green, badly worn footman’s livery, with frayed gold galloons, and apparently tailored for a man a full arshin taller than Petrushka. In his hands, he held a hat, also with galloons and green feathers, and at his hip, he had a footman’s sword in a leather sheath.
Finally, for the completeness of the picture, Petrushka, following his favorite habit of always being in négligée, dressed for home, was barefoot even now. Mr. Golyadkin inspected Petrushka all around and was seemingly satisfied. The livery was evidently rented for some ceremonial occasion. It was also noticeable that during the inspection, Petrushka looked at his master with a strange anticipation and followed his every movement with unusual curiosity, which greatly embarrassed Mr. Golyadkin.
“Well, and the carriage?” “The carriage has also arrived.” “For the whole day?” “For the whole day. Twenty-five, assignation notes.” “And have the boots been brought?” “The boots have also been brought.” “Idiot! Can’t you say ‘They have been brought, sir.’ Hand them over here.”
Expressing his satisfaction that the boots fit well, Mr. Golyadkin asked for tea, to wash, and to shave. He shaved very meticulously and washed in the same manner, quickly gulped down some tea, and proceeded to his main, final dressing: he put on trousers that were almost brand new; then a shirt-front with bronze buttons, a vest with very bright and pleasant flowers; around his neck he tied a brightly colored silk neckerchief, and finally, pulled on his frock coat, also brand new and carefully cleaned. While dressing, he glanced lovingly at his boots several times, constantly raising one foot and then the other, admiring the style and muttering something to himself, occasionally winking at his own thoughts with an expressive grimace. However, this morning Mr. Golyadkin was extremely distracted, because he almost failed to notice the smiles and grimaces at his expense from Petrushka, who was helping him dress.
Finally, having done everything necessary, and completely dressed, Mr. Golyadkin put his purse in his pocket, admired Petrushka, who had put on the boots and was thus also completely ready, and, noticing that everything was done and there was nothing more to wait for, hastily, fussily, and with a little tremor in his heart (which had a habit of beating on all unfamiliar staircases), rushed down his stairs. A light blue hired carriage with some sort of coats of arms rattled up to the porch. Petrushka, winking at the coachman and a few onlookers, seated his master in the carriage; in an unaccustomed voice, and barely holding back a foolish laugh, he shouted: “Go!” jumped onto the back, and the whole ensemble, with noise and clatter, ringing and rattling, rolled off onto Nevsky Prospect.
As soon as the blue carriage managed to leave the gate, Mr. Golyadkin convulsively rubbed his hands and burst into a quiet, inaudible laugh, like a cheerful man who has managed to pull off a great prank and is overjoyed with it himself. Immediately after this fit of gaiety, however, the laugh was replaced by a strange, worried expression on Mr. Golyadkin’s face. Despite the damp and overcast weather, he lowered both carriage windows and began anxiously peering at the passers-by on the right and left, immediately adopting a proper and dignified look as soon as he noticed someone looking at him.
At the turn from Liteyny Street onto Nevsky Prospect, he shuddered from a most unpleasant sensation and, grimacing like a poor fellow whose corn has been stepped on unexpectedly, hastily, even fearfully, pressed himself into the darkest corner of his carriage. The fact was that he met two of his colleagues, two young officials from the department where he himself served. The officials, it seemed to Mr. Golyadkin, were also in extreme bewilderment at thus encountering their comrade; one of them even pointed at Mr. Golyadkin. It even seemed to Mr. Golyadkin that the other called him loudly by name, which was, of course, very improper in the street. Our hero hid and did not respond. “What rascals!” he began to reason with himself. “Well, what is so strange about that? A man is in a carriage; a man needs to be in a carriage, so he took a carriage. Simply rubbish! I know them—simply boys who still need a good whipping! Their business is only to gamble at pitch and toss with their salary and hang around somewhere, that’s their job. I would tell them all a thing or two, but then…”
Mr. Golyadkin did not finish and froze. A brisk pair of Kazan horses, quite familiar to Mr. Golyadkin, harnessed to a stylish gig, quickly overtook his carriage on the right. The gentleman sitting in the gig, accidentally catching sight of Mr. Golyadkin’s face, which he had rather carelessly thrust out of the carriage window, was also seemingly extremely astonished by such an unexpected meeting and, bending as far as he could, began peering with the greatest curiosity and interest into the corner of the carriage where our hero had hastened to hide.
The gentleman in the gig was Andrey Filippovich, the Head of a Section in the office where Mr. Golyadkin was listed as assistant to his desk chief. Mr. Golyadkin, seeing that Andrey Filippovich recognized him completely, was staring at him wide-eyed, and that it was impossible to hide, blushed up to his ears. “Should I bow or not? Should I respond or not? Should I admit it or not?” thought our hero in indescribable anguish, “or should I pretend that it is not I, but someone else strikingly like me, and look as if nothing were the matter? It is definitely not I, not I, and that is all!” said Mr. Golyadkin, taking off his hat to Andrey Filippovich and not taking his eyes off him. “I, I am nothing,” he whispered with effort, “I am nothing at all, this is not I at all, Andrey Filippovich, this is not I at all, not I, and that’s all.”
Soon, however, the gig overtook the carriage, and the magnetism of his superior’s gaze ceased. Nevertheless, he was still blushing, smiling, muttering something to himself… “I was a fool not to respond,” he finally thought, “I should have simply been bold and straightforward, not without a certain nobility: I was invited to dinner too, Andrey Filippovich, and that is all!” Then, suddenly remembering his failure, our hero flushed like fire, frowned, and threw a terrible, defiant look into the front corner of the carriage, a look intended to instantly incinerate all his enemies to dust.
Finally, suddenly, by some inspiration, he pulled the cord tied to the coachman’s elbow, stopped the carriage, and ordered it to turn back onto Liteyny Street. The fact was that Mr. Golyadkin immediately needed, probably for his own peace of mind, to tell something very interesting to his doctor, Krestyan Ivanovich. And although he had only known Krestyan Ivanovich for a very short time, having only visited him once last week due to certain needs, a doctor, as they say, is like a confessor—it would be foolish to hide things, and it is the doctor’s duty to know his patient.
“Will all this really be proper,” continued our hero, getting out of the carriage at the entrance of a five-story house on Liteyny Street, near where he had ordered his carriage to stop, “will all this be proper? Will it be decent? Will it be appropriate? However, what of it,” he continued, climbing the stairs, catching his breath and restraining the beating of his heart, which had a habit of beating on all unfamiliar staircases, “what of it? I am here on my own business, and there is nothing reprehensible here… It would be foolish to hide. I will just look as if it’s nothing, that I am just passing by… And he will see that that’s how it should be.”
Reasoning thus, Mr. Golyadkin reached the second floor and stopped before the apartment numbered five, on the door of which was a beautiful brass plate with the inscription:
Krestyan Ivanovich Rutenspitz, Doctor of Medicine and Surgery.
Stopping, our hero hurried to give his face a proper, relaxed, and not-without-a-certain-amiability look and prepared to pull the bell cord. Having prepared to pull the bell cord, he immediately and quite appropriately decided that it would be better to do it tomorrow and that there was no great need now. But since Mr. Golyadkin suddenly heard footsteps on the stairs, he immediately changed his new decision and, as if simply going along with his most decisive impulse, rang Dr. Krestyan Ivanovich’s doorbell.
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