The Double

Our hero rubbed his hands energetically when he had finished the note. Then, having pulled on his overcoat and put on his hat, he unlocked the door with a spare key and set off for the department. He reached the department, but did not venture to go in; indeed, it was much too late; Mr. Goliadkin’s watch showed half-past two. Suddenly a certain, apparently quite unimportant, circumstance resolved some of Mr. Goliadkin’s doubts: a breathless and red-faced little figure appeared from around the corner of the office building and stealthily, with a ratlike gait, darted onto the porch and then at once into the front hall. This was the scrivener Ostafyev, a man quite well known to Mr. Goliadkin, a somewhat necessary man and ready to do anything for ten kopecks. Knowing Ostafyev’s soft spot and realizing that, after absenting himself on a most urgent necessity, he was now probably still more avid for his ten-kopeck pieces, our hero decided not to be sparing and at once darted onto the porch and then also into the front hall after Ostafyev, called to him, and with a mysterious look invited him to one side, into a nook behind an enormous iron stove. Having led him there, our hero began asking questions.

“Well, so, my friend, how’s things there, sort of…you understand me?”

“Yes, Your Honor, I wish Your Honor good day.”

“Very well, my friend, very well; and I’ll reward you, my dear friend. Well, so you see, how are things, my friend?”

“What are you asking, if you please, sir?” Here Ostafyev slightly covered his accidentally opened mouth with his hand.

“You see, my friend, I sort of…but don’t go thinking anything…Well, so, is Andrei Filippovich here?…”

“He is, sir.”

“And the clerks are here?”

“The clerks also, as they should be, sir.”

“And his excellency also?”

“And his excellency also, sir.” Here once more the scrivener held his hand over his again opened mouth and looked at Mr. Goliadkin somehow curiously and strangely. At least it seemed so to our hero.

“And there’s nothing special, my friend?”

“No, sir, nothing at all, sir.”

“So, my dear friend, there isn’t anything about me, anything just…eh? just so, my friend, you understand?”

“No, sir, I’ve heard nothing so far.” Here the scrivener again held his hand to his mouth and again glanced at Mr. Goliadkin somehow strangely. The thing was that our hero was now trying to penetrate Ostafyev’s physiognomy, to read whether there was not something hidden in it. And indeed there seemed to be something hidden; the thing was that Ostafyev was becoming somehow ruder and dryer, and no longer entered into Mr. Goliadkin’s interests with the same concern as at the beginning of the conversation. “He’s partly within his rights,” thought Mr. Goliadkin. “What am I to him? He may already have gotten something from the other side, and that’s why he absented himself with such urgency. But now I’ll sort of…” Mr. Goliadkin understood that the time for ten-kopeck pieces had come.

“Here you are, my dear friend…”

“I cordially thank Your Honor.”

“I’ll give you more.”

“As you say, Your Honor.”

“I’ll give you more now, at once, and when the matter’s ended, I’ll give you as much again. Understand?”

The scrivener said nothing, stood at attention, and looked fixedly at Mr. Goliadkin.

“Well, tell me now: have you heard anything about me?…”

“It seems that, so far…sort of…nothing so far, sir.” Ostafyev also replied measuredly, like Mr. Goliadkin, preserving a slightly mysterious look, twitching his eyebrows slightly, looking at the ground, trying to fall into the right tone and, in short, trying with all his might to earn what had been promised, because what had been given he considered his own and definitively acquired.

“And nothing’s known?”

“Not so far, sir.”

“But listen…sort of…maybe it will be known?”

“Later on, of course, maybe it will be known, sir.”

“That’s bad!” thought our hero.

“Listen, here’s more for you, my dear.”

“I heartily thank Your Honor.”

“Was Vakhrameev here yesterday?…”

“He was, sir.”

“And wasn’t there somebody else?…Try to recall, brother!”

The scrivener rummaged in his memory for a moment and recalled nothing suitable.

“No, sir, there was nobody else, sir.”

“Hm!” Silence ensued.

“Listen, brother, here’s more for you; tell me everything, all the innermost secrets.”

“Yes, sir.” Ostafyev was now standing there smooth as silk: that was just what Mr. Goliadkin wanted.

“Tell me, brother, what sort of footing is he on now?”

“All right, sir, quite good, sir,” replied the scrivener, staring all eyes at Mr. Goliadkin.

“Good in what sense?”

“In that sense, sir.” Here Ostafyev twitched his eyebrows significantly. However, he was decidedly at a loss and did not know what more to say. “That’s bad!” thought Mr. Goliadkin.

“Haven’t they got something further going with this Vakhrameev?”

“It’s all as before, sir.”

“Think a little.”

“They have, so it’s said, sir.”

“Well, what is it?”

Ostafyev held his hand over his mouth.

“Is there a letter for me from there?”