LITMIR.BIZ

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to tell you the whole truth… .”

      Suddenly Mr. Golyadkin started. The red and perfectly sopping beard of the cabman appeared round the woodstack again… .

      “I am coming directly, my friend. I’m coming at once, you know,” Mr. Golyadkin responded in a trembling and failing voice.

      The cabman scratched his head, then stroked his beard, and moved a step forward… stood still and looked suspiciously at Mr. Golyadkin.

      “I am coming directly, my friend; you see, my friend …

      I … just a little, you see, only a second! … more … here, you see, my friend… .”

      “Aren’t you coming at all?” the cabman asked at last, definitely coming up to Mr. Golyadkin.

      “No, my friend, I’m coming directly. I am waiting, you see, my friend… .”

      “So I see …”

      “You see, my friend, I … What part of the country do you come from, my friend?”

      “We are under a master …”

      “And have you a good master? …”

      “All right …”

      “Yes, my friend; you stay here, my friend, you see …

      Have you been in Petersburg long, my friend?”

      “It’s a year since I came …”

      “And are you getting on all right, my friend?”

      “Middling.”

      “To be sure, my friend, to be sure. You must thank Providence, my friend. You must look out for straightforward people. Straightforward people are non too common nowadays, my friend; he would give you washing, food, and drink, my good fellow, a good man would. But sometimes you see tears shed for the sake of gold, my friend … you see a lamentable example; that’s the fact of the matter, my friend… .”

      The cabman seemed to feel sorry for Mr. Golyadkin. “Well, your honour, I’ll wait. Will your honour be waiting long?”

      “No, my friend, no; I … you know … I won’t wait any longer, my good man … What do you think, my friend? I rely upon you. I won’t stay any longer.”

      “Aren’t you going at all?”

      “No, my friend, no; I’ll reward you, my friend … that’s the fact of the matter. How much ought I to give you, my dear fellow?”

      “What you hired me for, please, sir. I’ve been waiting here a long time; don’t be hard on a man, sir.”

      “Well, here, my good man, here.”

      At this point Mr. Golyadkin gave six roubles to the cabman, and made up his mind in earnest to waste no more time, that is, to clear off straight away, especially as the cabman was dismissed and everything was over, and so it was useless to wait longer. He rushed out of the yard, went out of the gate, turned to the left and without looking round took to his heels, breathless and rejoicing. “Perhaps it will all be for the best,” he thought, “and perhaps in this way I’ve run away from trouble.” Mr. Golyadkin suddenly became all at once lighthearted. “Oh, if only it could turn out for the best!” thought our hero, though he put little faith in his own words. “I know what I’ll do . . ,” he thought. “No, I know, I’d better try the other tack … Or wouldn’t it be better to do this? …” In this way, hesitating and seeking for the solution of his doubts, our hero ran to Semyonovsky Bridge; but while running to Semyonovsky Bridge he very rationally and conclusively decided to return.

      “It will be better so,” he thought. “I had better try the other tack, that is … I will just go - I’ll look on simply as an outsider, an outsider - and nothing more, whatever happens - it’s not my fault, that’s the fact of the matter! That’s how it shall be now.”

      Deciding to return, our hero actually did return, the more readily because with this happy thought he conceived of himself now as quite an outsider.

      “It’s the best thing; one’s not responsible for anything, and one will see all that’s necessary … that’s the fact of the matter!”

      It was a safe plan and that settled it. Reassured, he crept back under the peaceful shelter of his soothing and protecting woodstack, and began gazing intently at the window. This time he was not destined to gaze and wait long. Suddenly a strange commotion became apparent at all the windows. Figures appeared, curtains were drawn back, whole groups of people were crowding to the windows at Olsufy Ivanovitch’s flat. All were peeping out looking for something in the yard. From the security of his woodstack, our hero, too, began with curiosity watching the general commotion, and with interest craned forward to right and to left so far as he could within the shadow of the woodstack. Suddenly he started, held his breath and almost sat down with horror. It seemed to him - in short, he realized, that they were looking for nothing and for nobody but him, Mr. Golyadkin! Every one was looking in his direction. It was impossible to escape; they saw him … In a flutter, Mr. Golyadkin huddled as closely as he could to the woodstack, and only then noticed that the treacherous shadow had betrayed him, that it did not cover him completely. Our hero would have been delighted at that moment to creep into a mouse-hole in the woodstack, and there meekly to remain, if only it had been possible. But it was absolutely impossible. In his agony he began at last staring openly and boldly at the windows, it was the best thing to do… . And suddenly he glowed with shame. He had been fully discovered, every one was staring at him at once, they were all waving their hands, all were nodding their heads at him, all were calling to him; then several windows creaked as they opened, several voices shouted something to him at once… .

      “I wonder why they don’t whip these naughty girls as children,” our hero muttered to himself, losing his head completely. Suddenly there an down the steps he (we know who), without his hat or greatcoat, breathless, rubbing his hands, wriggling, capering, perfidiously displaying intense joy at seeing Mr. Golyadkin.

      “Yakov Petrovitch,” whispered this individual, so notorious for his worthlessness, “Yakov Petrovitch, are you here? You’ll catch cold. It’s chilly here, Yakov Petrovitch. Come indoors.”

      “Yakov Petrovitch! No, I’m all right, Yakov Petrovitch,” our hero muttered in a submissive voice.

      “No, this won’t do, Yakov Petrovitch, I beg you, I humbly beg you to wait with us. ‘Make him welcome and bring him in,’ they say, ‘Yakov Petrovitch.’”

      “No, Yakov Petrovitch, you see, I’d better … I had better go home, Yakov Petrovitch . . ,” said our hero, burning at a slow fire and freezing at the same time with shame and terror.

      “No - no - no - no!” whispered the loathsome person. “No - no - no, on no account! Come along,” he said resolutely, and he dragged Mr. Golyadkin senior to the steps. Mr. Golyadkin senior did not at all want to go, but as every one was looking at them, it would have been stupid to struggle and resist; so our hero went - though, indeed, one cannot say that he went, because he did not know in the least what was being done with him. Though, after all, it made no difference!

      Before our hero had time to recover himself and come to his senses, he found himself in the drawing-room. He was pale, dishevelled, harassed; with lustreless eyes he scanned the crowd - horror! The drawing-room, all the rooms - were full to overflowing. There were masses of people, a whole galaxy of ladies; and all were crowding round Mr. Golyadkin and he perceived clearly that they were all forcing him in one direction.

      “Not towards the door,” was the thought that floated through Mr. Golyadkin’s mind.

      They were, in fact, forcing him not towards the door but Olsufy Ivanovitch’s easy chair. On one side of the armchair stood Klara Olsufyevna, pale, languid, melancholy, but gorgeously dressed. Mr. Golyadkin was particularly struck by a little white flower which rested on her superb hair. On the other side of the armchair stood Vladimir Semyonovitch, clad in black, with his new order in his buttonhole. Mr. Golyadkin was led in, as we have described

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