Dostoevsky’s Double.

There was a man in the city of Petersburg, whose name was Golyadkin, and that man was blameless and upright, and one that feared the department head and eschewed evil. He had a beloved, Klara, and a servant, Petrushka, and an apartment on Shestilavochnaya Street, and he was a titular councilor. Now there was a day when the men of rank came to present themselves before the department head, and the Double came also among them. And the department head said unto the Double, Have you considered my servant Golyadkin, that there is none like him in the department, one that fears me and eschews evil? And the Double said to him, Does Golyadkin fear you for naught? Have you not given him important work, and honors, and all that he has on every side? But put forth your hand and touch all that he has, and he will curse you to your face. And the department head said unto the Double, Behold, all that he has is in your power. And the Double vexed Golyadkin, and tormented him, and Golyadkin lost his beloved Klara, and his servant Petrushka, and his apartment on Shestilavochnaya Street, and still he did not curse the department head, but groveled before him…

I do not know whether Dostoevsky had the book of Job in mind when writing Двойник (The Double). I do know that he read it repeatedly as a boy, that it stirred him profoundly, and that it had a great deal of influence on his later writing, and I know that the farther I read in The Double, the more irresistibly I was reminded of Job and his escalating sufferings. I assumed it must be a commonplace in Dostoevsky criticism, but to my astonishment, whether I googled [Двойник Голядкин Иов] or [Double Golyadkin “book of Job”] I got no relevant results. Can this really not have occurred to anyone before? At any rate, I can easily imagine Dostoevsky thinking “I’m going to write about Job, but not a righteous and admirable Job — rather, a miserable worm of an official with no redeeming qualities, someone who merely thinks he’s admirable, and I’m going to make the reader interested in him and his fate anyway.” It may or may not be relevant that Golyadkin repeatedly cries out “Господи бог (or боже) мой!”: Oh my Lord God!

But of course it takes a while to get to the escalating sufferings; at first we get escalating weirdness. Golyadkin wakes up, wonders whether he’s awake or asleep, whether what he experiences is real or a continuation of his dreams, and his furniture and clothes look at him familiarly (Знакомо глянули на него). Then the gray, dirty autumn day looks at him so angrily that “Mr. Golyadkin could no longer doubt in any way that he was not in some fairytale land [в тридесятом царстве, literally ‘in the thirtieth kingdom,’ a traditional site for a Russian fairy tale] but in the city of Petersburg, in the capital, on Shestilavochnaya [‘Six-Shop’] Street.” (The street, by the way, hadn’t been called that in a while, at least not officially; by the 1840s it was Srednii Prospekt [‘Middle Avenue’], in 1852 it became Nadezhdinskaya Street, and in 1936 it got its present name, Mayakovsky Street.) He looks in the mirror, worries about what would happen if anything were amiss, reassures himself that so far everything is going well, counts his hidden wad of bills (seven hundred and fifty rubles!), gets washed and dressed with the help of Petrushka, and goes out to the carriage he has hired for the day. He drives off jubilantly, but soon becomes worried; he sees two young colleagues in the street and tries to hide from them as they point at him, then sees his boss, the department head, in another carriage and doesn’t know whether to greet him or not, and suddenly he decides to stop at the office of Doctor Rutenspitz (whom he’s only met once) and tell him “something very interesting.” I’ve given some account of the conversation with the doctor in this earlier post; it is here that the reader realizes that something is seriously wrong with Golyadkin, the situation, or both.

I won’t go on laying out the plot, such as it is; basically, Golyadkin (or “our hero,” as the narrator frequently calls him) does more and more bizarre things and gets into more and more humiliating situations, to which he responds with a mixture of brief internal defiance and excruciatingly protracted and incoherent self-abasement when he actually confronts someone. At first I thought of Kafka; Golyadkin seemed a cousin of Joseph K. Then, at the start of chapter 4, the narration takes a new turn, to an over-the-top farrago of pompous clichés; I’ll quote Constance Garnett’s translation, since she handles this sort of thing well:

That day the birthday of Klara Olsufyevna, the only daughter of the civil councillor, Berendyev, at one time Mr. Golyadkin’s benefactor and patron, was being celebrated by a brilliant and sumptuous dinner-party, such as had not been seen for many a long day within the walls of the flats in the neighbourhood of Ismailovsky Bridge — a dinner more like some Balthazar’s feast, with a suggestion of something Babylonian in its brilliant luxury and style, with Veuve-Clicquot champagne, with oysters and fruit from Eliseyev’s and Milyutin’s, with all sorts of fatted calves, and all grades of the government service. This festive day was to conclude with a brilliant ball, a small birthday ball, but yet brilliant in its taste, its distinction and its style. Of course, I am willing to admit that similar balls do happen sometimes, though rarely. Such balls, more like family rejoicings than balls, can only be given in such houses as that of the civil councillor, Berendyev.

Here I was reminded of the opening of Bely’s Petersburg (in the McDuff translation: “Your excellencies, eminences, honours, citizens! What is our Russian Empire? Our Russian Empire is a geographical entity, which means: a part of a certain planet. And the Russian Empire comprises: in the first place – Great,Little, White and Red Rus…”) and of the Gerty MacDowell chapter of Ulysses (“The summer evening had begun to fold the world in its mysterious embrace. Far away in the west the sun was setting and the last glow of all too fleeting day lingered lovingly on sea and strand, on the proud promontory of dear old Howth guarding as ever the waters of the bay…”). Who are these comfortable, bloviating narrators? What is their relation to the characters they describe, and to us? How far can we trust them? This is all, of course, Modernism 101, but here we’re dealing with a text from 1846, not the early twentieth century. Dostoevsky has made a giant leap into unknown waters, and it’s no wonder the critics and readers of the day had a hard time following him; Belinsky’s review was basically favorable, but included a lot of carping, and the circle of writers Dostoevsky was depending on for collegial support started mocking him mercilessly.

Belinsky attacked the novel for prolixity, and it’s easy to see why: it becomes more and more repetitive as it goes on, both in the situations and in the language. But this repetitiveness is essential to the effect Dostoevsky is aiming for (just as Gertrude Stein’s is to hers); Golyadkin’s speech is a farrago of virtually meaningless words and phrases that indicate the disordered paralysis of his brain, and the repetitive actions and situations represent the black hole of madness, which (like addiction) is boring as well as tormenting because nothing new can happen, it is an endless circling of the same inescapable track. But then madness is not easily distinguishable from normal life — Adam Thirlwell puts it nicely in his recent NYRB review of Can’t and Won’t, a collection of stories by Lydia Davis:

Such faulty logic is the sign of an intelligence dreaming, but it is also, after all, the sign of the many problems of waking life. Always we are coming up with falsely convincing propositions. The apparently real and apparently dreamlike share a common, cloudy structure—where imperceptible irregularities and mistaken meanings can occur at any moment. That confusion is the definition of the real as proposed by Davis’s fiction. And it’s the stories where her narrators lose themselves in minute obsessional cadenzas that are Davis’s most comical and most terrible… But the repetition is the proof of the inescapable cosmic joke. They are both glimpsed symptoms of a mind always trying to escape its own small blockages, its dismal letdowns and confusions.

“Obsessional cadenzas” — what a perfect phrase for the desperate tangles Golyadkin gets into! Here’s an example of his manner of speaking; he is confronting his double, also called Yakov Petrovich, who has been tormenting him throughout the novel and whom he has chased down in the street (I provide first Garnett’s version, then the Russian):

“For my part, Yakov Petrovitch,” our hero answered warmly, “for my part, scorning to be roundabout and speaking boldly and openly, using straightforward, honourable language and putting the whole matter on an honourable basis, I tell you I can openly and honourably assert, Yakov Petrovitch, that I am absolutely pure, and that, you know it yourself, Yakov Petrovitch, the error is mutual — it may all be the world’s judgment, the opinion of the slavish crowd. . . . I speak openly, Yakov Petrovitch, everything is possible. I will say, too, Yakov Petrovitch, if you judge it in this way, if you look at the matter from a lofty, noble point of view, then I will boldly say, without false shame I will say, Yakov Petrovitch, it will positively be a pleasure to me to discover that I have been in error, it will positively be a pleasure to me to recognize it. You know yourself you are an intelligent man and, what is more, you are a gentleman. Without shame, without false shame, I am ready to recognize it,” he wound up with dignity and nobility.

— С своей стороны, Яков Петрович, — с одушевлением отвечал наш герой, — с своей стороны, презирая окольным путем и говоря смело и откровенно, говоря языком прямым, благородным и поставив все дело на благородную доску, скажу вам, могу открыто и благородно утверждать, Яков Петрович, что я чист совершенно и что, сами вы знаете, Яков Петрович, обоюдное заблуждение, — все может быть, — суд света, мнение раболепной толпы… Я говорю откровенно, Яков Петрович, все может быть. Еще скажу, Яков Петрович, если так судить, если с благородной и высокой точки зрения на дело смотреть, то смело скажу, без ложного стыда скажу, Яков Петрович, мне даже приятно будет открыть, что я заблуждался, мне даже приятно будет сознаться в том. Сами вы знаете, вы человек умный, а сверх того, благородный. Без стыда, без ложного стыда готов в этом сознаться… — с достоинством и благородством заключил наш герой.

As usual, he starts out wanting to deal his enemy a deadly blow and ends up making a humiliating profession of friendship. (The double is called both his приятель ‘friend’ and his неприятель ‘enemy’ [literally ‘nonfriend’], more or less at random, and sometimes his недостойный приятель ‘unworthy friend,’ лжеприятель ‘pseudo-friend,’ or ложный друг ‘false friend’ [using the more basic word for ‘friend’].) Just in this brief snippet you can see how he repeats words like откровенно ‘openly’ and благородный ‘noble’; they are repeated many, many more times in the full text, as are virtually meaningless expressions like вот оно как or вот оно что (a mix of “Is that so?” and “I see!” and “Upon my word!” and “How about that!”), дескать (a marker of quoted speech) and так и так (to quote Sophia Lubensky’s invaluable Dictionary of Idioms: “used to indicate that what one is about to say repeats or conveys what was said by o.s. or another at an earlier time when used with a verb of speaking, adds colloquial flavor to the verb and reinforces that one is repeating words spoken earlier”). Perhaps his most significant repeated word, however, is ничего ‘nothing,’ which is also an adjective/adverb meaning ‘not (too) bad, pretty good/well.’ It is used 129 times in the book; here is the first use, during that first carriage ride, when he is trying to decide whether to greet his boss (I’ve modified the Garnett version):

“To bow or not? Respond or not? Recognize him or not?” our hero thought in indescribable anguish, “or pretend that I’m not myself, but somebody else strikingly similar to me, and look as though everything were fine. Just not me, not me, and that’s all!” said Mr. Golyadkin, doffing his hat to Andrey Filippovich and not taking his eyes off him. “I’m, I’m all right [ничего],” he whispered with an effort, “I’m quite all right [ничего], it’s not me at all, Andrey Filippovich, it’s not me at all, and that’s all.”

«Поклониться иль нет? Отозваться иль нет? Признаться иль нет? — думал в неописанной тоске наш герой, — или прикинуться, что не я, а кто-нибудь другой, разительно схожий со мною, и смотреть как ни в чем не бывало? Именно не я, не я, да и только! — говорил господин Голядкин, снимая шляпу пред Андреем Филипповичем и не сводя с него глаз. — Я, я ничего, — шептал он через силу, — я совсем ничего, это вовсе не я, Андрей Филиппович, это вовсе не я, не я, да и только».

When he says “I’m all right, I’m quite all right,” he’s literally saying “I’m nothing, I’m absolutely nothing.” The phrase “я ничего” (I’m OK/nothing) is used over a dozen times; in the course of just a few lines in chapter 9, he says “я ничего, Петруша, я ничего…” (I’m OK/nothing, Petrushka, I’m OK/nothing) and “Нет, Петруша, ведь я ничего. Ведь ты видишь, что я ничего…” (No, Petrushka, I’m OK/nothing. You can see that I’m OK/nothing). The actual meaning, “I’m all right,” is of course predominant to the reader, but as the nightmare deepens the literal “nothing” becomes hard to escape.

The mistake the readers and critics of the time were making is that they wanted prose to be a transparent window into social reality, hopefully showing terrible conditions that needed to be corrected; as Hodgson writes (see this post): “The very concept of style gradually faded from the critical perception of Russian readers, as concern for ‘problem content’ took its place. The word seemed to lose its stylistic and semantic associations, and finally, in the prose of the forties, the word was perceived as a flat label, bearing a one-to-one relationship to some ‘real’ concrete referent.” But, to quote Konstantin Mochulsky, “Dostoevsky’s heroes are born out of speech; this is a general law in his creative processes.” You have to read him as you read, say, Faulkner, with as much attention to who’s telling the story and why as to what’s being recounted. I’m very much looking forward to reading Bakhtin’s 1929 Проблемы творчества Достоевского (Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics), because as I understand it this is how he approaches Dostoevsky, as a master of polyphonic narration.

Let’s see, I’ve mentioned the Bible, Kafka, Bely, Joyce, Stein, Lydia Davis, and Faulkner; who am I forgetting? Ah yes, Gogol! If you look at criticism of early Dostoevsky, the one name that is bound to come up is that of Gogol. Of course, Dostoevsky encouraged that himself with his famous “We all came out of Gogol’s Overcoat” [actually, this turns out to be a “well-encrusted overreading of Melchior de Vogüé” — see the Dinosaur’s comment below]; furthermore, it’s entirely accurate, because Gogol was the overwhelming influence on every writer of the time. The Double owes a great deal to him — most notably to Записки сумасшедшего (“Diary of a Madman”), but also to his style and approach in general. To take a trivial example, the narrator’s “герой наш” (our hero) comes straight out of Dead Souls [or such is my guess]. But as I said to Sashura in this thread in regard to “the struggle between the slavophiles and the westernisers,” “I’m bored to tears with the traditional approach. Whatever juice was in that orange was squeezed out over a century ago.” The same goes for Gogol; I’m sure there’s more to be said about his influence on Dostoevsky, just as there is still music to be written in C major, but isn’t it time to find other approaches? I had a hard time sleeping the night after I finished The Double, and it wasn’t because I was counting Gogol references. Dostoevsky is vast and contains multitudes; to take a simplistic approach is to betray him.

Addendum (Dec. 2018). David Gasperetti’s The Rise of the Russian Novel: Carnival, Stylization, and Mockery of the West is primarily about the 18th-century writers Fyodor Emin, Mikhail Chulkov, and Matvei Komarov, who invented the Russian novel, but he has a final section on The Double, and I like the way it starts off; he quotes Belinsky’s complaint about its repetitiousness, then says:

What Belinskii and others have failed to see, however, is that there definitely is a method to the madness of The Double. Like the carnivalesque fiction of Chulkov and Komarov, Dostoevskii’s novel relentlessly attacks Russia’s thoughtless infatuation with foreign culture. Far from trying to appease the sensibilities of its age, it functions as a cleverly designed challenge to the Western-inspired literary aesthetic of the Natural School. With his great knowledge of both Russian and foreign prose fiction of the 1840s Dostoevskii knew quite well just what his readers could and would do. In a near flawless execution of the technique of stylization he first entices readers with the conventions they have come to expect from the Natural School and then, without warning, changes the way these are normally utilized. The premises readers have willingly accepted this time as well as so many times before gradually, disquietingly disintegrate before their very eyes. A protagonist who seemed to be a reliable literary type began to act erratically, themes that had been clearly defined suddenly become ambiguous or disappear altogether, and our confident predictions about the outcome of the work are shattered as the plot takes a series of confusing twists and turns. Confronted with a set of conventions that seem to be as empty as Goliadkin himself, readers are forced to reevaluate their allegiance to a type of literature they had previously embraced without reservation.

He makes Dostoevsky sound like a 19th-century Vladimir Sorokin!


  1. (bewildered) how could it *not* be Job?

  2. Right? I still can’t believe Job has never been mentioned in this connection (though some better-informed reader will doubtless correct me on that).

  3. Apropos of nothing in particular, here’s a great Whistler quote: “Art should be independent of all clap trap, should stand alone and appeal to the artistic sense of eye or ear without confounding it with emotions entirely foreign to it, as devotion, pity, love, patriotism and the like.”

  4. i just wanted to say thanks for all of these wonderful posts. i have had a resurgence in interest in slavic studies thanks in part to your blog and am now seriously considering what moves i would need to make to head into a ph.d program.

  5. You’re very welcome, and I’m delighted to hear it!

  6. LH, some literature analysis with respect to Job is mentioned here, but it isn’t limited just to the Double

  7. Great, thanks!

  8. marie-lucie says:

    the narrator’s “герой наш” (our hero) comes straight out of Dead Souls.

    And where did Gogol find it? Notre héros is very, very common in French literature, I am not sure when it started but it is a cliché of at least 19th century literature, as the author refers to him. Le héros and its female counterpart l’héroïne simply refer to the major male or female character in a story, whether factual or fictional. I never thought until right now that notre héros might (sometimes) be ironic, but it is a possibility.

  9. And where did Gogol find it?

    That’s a separate question, which someone better informed than I would have to investigate. Dostoevsky definitely got it from Gogol.

  10. Dostoevsky definitely got it from Gogol

    I wouldn’t be so definitive, the construct “герой нашъ” ~~ “the principal character of the opus” was commonplace in the XVIII c. early XIX c. Russian literature. Karamzin and Polevoy, whom I recently mentioned, both use it; Krylov, of fables, and Zhukovsky, of odes, do, at least half a century prior to Dostoevsky; and Lomonosov uses even earlier, at the dawn, so to speak, of Russian secular literature. It is in the original prose and in the verse and in the translations from various languages. Nothing particularly inventive about this “hero of ours” in Russian.

  11. Well, OK, maybe I was too definite. But it’s pretty frequent in Dead Souls, and I’m pretty sure Gogol was more immediately influential on Dostoevsky than all those other guys.

  12. In other words, if Gogol hadn’t used it, I doubt he would have picked it up from Zhukovsky or Lomonosov.

  13. No, my point is that it was so commonplace that nobody needed to pick from anybody specific. It wasn’t an invention or a stylistic discovery – it was just the way they wrote. But perhaps you’d prefer the much-discussed here Karamzin’s “Poor Liza” which uses the same expression too. BTW Google’s OCR frequently replaces Cyrillic ъ with Latin lowercase b, so if you want to play with Google books yourself, then both “нашъ” and “нашb” are important options.

  14. marie-lucie says:

    Which is more likely, that those early Russian authors read French literature, or that French authors read Russian literature?

  15. It wasn’t an invention or a stylistic discovery – it was just the way they wrote.

    Of course it wasn’t an invention or a stylistic discovery, any more than “я ничего.” It is, however, a very noticeable and obtrusive presence in the narration. If he had used it once or twice, it wouldn’t be noticeable and there would be no point in wondering where he got it — it would just be part of Russian. But since he uses it so often it is an inescapable part of the fabric, it makes sense to me to suggest that he got it from Dead Souls, where it is also used often enough to be noticeable. If I put “so it goes” into a novel, nobody would notice or care. If I ended every chapter with it, people would say I got it from Vonnegut, even though it’s a perfectly ordinary bit of English.

    Which is more likely, that those early Russian authors read French literature, or that French authors read Russian literature?

    French authors certainly didn’t read Russian literature in those antediluvian days. The better-educated Russian authors, including Dostoevsky, read French, and Dostoevsky actually translated French novels into Russian.

  16. To take another example, when he’s not calling him “our hero” he’s calling him господин Голядкин (“Mr. Golyadkin”). That’s perfectly normal Russian, but it’s not a normal way for an author to refer to a character. Why did Dostoevsky choose to use it? I don’t know, but the answer isn’t “it’s just the way he wrote.”

  17. And, of course, I may well be wrong that he got it from Dead Souls; it’s just a thought. But I don’t think it’s a silly idea or a pointless question.

  18. marie-lucie says:

    French vs Russian authors: of course my question was rethorical.

  19. I added a qualifying phrase to my overconfident statement about “our hero.” You may have noticed that when I’m enthusiastic I tend to get overconfident.

  20. marie-lucie says:

    oops! I meant rhetorical

  21. True, LH, sometimes repetition of something stylistically bland per se may create a novelty of style. And sometimes it’s harder, for the native speakers, to perceive novelty in something which sounds dated at a first impression. It may require a fresh glance of an outsider, and an experience of historical comparison, to glimpse some new detail of stylistic development. So let me put it this way, I am not at all convinced that there was any novelty in repeated use of “hero of ours” but I am willing to give you the benefit of the doubt.

    “Defamiliarization” does work sometimes, no question about it.

  22. Maybe I am in the camp of those who cannot think outside C-major, but it has to be said that the first part of Chapter IV (ball in Berendeev’s appartment) is a pretty straightforward parody of Gogol. Governor’s ball from the “Dead souls” in particular, but more of the grotesque Gogol style in general. And it’s not an attempt of “homage” as we understand it in art today, Gogol’s style depends on describing mundane things at first simply, but then adding with each phrase a degree of detail or magnitude or manner or character that by the end blows the whole thing out of any proportion (he does it in Dead Souls again and again and again with Chichikov, landlords, Governor’s ball, men and women discussing fallout of Nozdrev’s revelations, and I am sure, I forgot more episodes than I remember). In other words it’s crescendo. Dostoevsky begins already very loudly. Anyways, its only one dimension, but overall feeling of parody is unmistakable.

    Smaller (but important) quibble. Я ничего often means I am OK, but when Golyadkin encounters Department head’s carriage better interpretation is never mind me, because quite clearly Golyadkin is trying (in his mind) not to be recognized by his boss.

  23. A very enjoyable post, Hat… and I wanted to be shamelessly pedantic about one of your attributions. That Dostoevsky line about Gogol’s Overcoat is a now well-encrusted overreading of Melchior de Vogüé’s The Russian Novel : ‘The more I study Russians the more I notice the truth of the comment made to me by one of them […]. “We have all come out from under Gogol’s greatcoat”’ , trans by H.A. Sawyer (London: Chapman and Hall, 1913), p. 111. Julian Graffy offers a detailed history of De Vogüé’s phrase in his Gogol’s The Overcoat , p.18.

  24. Anyways, its only one dimension, but overall feeling of parody is unmistakable.

    Oh, absolutely; that’s part of what I meant by “The Double owes a great deal to him.” I just didn’t want to go into all the borrowings and parodies, because it’s been done to death.

    Smaller (but important) quibble. Я ничего often means I am OK, but when Golyadkin encounters Department head’s carriage better interpretation is never mind me

    Thanks, that’s just the kind of thing I want to know!

    wanted to be shamelessly pedantic about one of your attributions

    And thank you as well — there’s nothing I like better than shameless pedantry! I knew nothing about Melchior de Vogüé, and always took the “Overcoat” line at face value as something D said. Live and learn!

  25. On the subject of Job, it threads not just through The Double but through most of his works right up to The Brothers Karamazov. In fact, in Russian dostoevskovedenie there is serious body of studies on how Job influenced Dostoyevsky’s thinking.
    One example

  26. J.W. Brewer says:

    An inspiring tale about how conspicuously reading “Dostoevsky or Tolstoy or something” similar can get you hired for a seemingly non-literary job:

  27. I don’t read literary criticism so even banal things interest me. So why Dostoevsky decided to parody Gogol in this birthday scene? From modern perspective, he wanted to describe a birthday party and there is no reason not to poke fun at Gogol. This is enough of a reason. But I doubt Dostoevsky was thinking this way. Maybe he thought, OK you Gogol is satirizing our provincial life, you are a master of that, but you know what, there are people out there who actually see the world this way. They really think that a birthday party at department head’s is a high-society ball. In this sense it’s even closer to Gerty MacDowell from Ulysses than our host suggested. Gerty’s head is full of romantic glitter from girl’s magazines, which Joyce amplified to baroque size. Dostoevsky took poor Golyadkin’s feelings about this birthday party and shown what would happen if he could put them into words. Joyce, of course, does it on a much larger scale, with more resources and, frankly speaking, mastery. But Dostoevsky does it for (what traditionally is thought) a better reason. He does need it for development of his “hero”.

  28. Thanks for this piece. I’ve just finished The Double and feel the style is boring and repetitive and Mr. Golyadkin is annoying and uninteresting, but this background helps a bit to appreciate the story. Still, nowhere near the level of, say, Notes from Underground.

  29. Well, sure, but bear in mind this was D’s second published story! It may not be a timeless classic, but it’s well done on its own terms.

  30. An interesting take, from here:

    As an illustration of this shift, [Russell Valentino] spoke about Fedor Dostoevsky’s 1848 novel The Double where the author “concentrates the fantastical potential of commercial power in the mind of a single individual.” The protagonist’s toying with the idea of fashioning himself as prosperous leads to a doubling – a gradual acceptance of the mask (the social figure) as a substitute for the real identity. Dostoevsky then reveals the moral decay that arises with the rise of “modern commercial culture” and ways that it affects the transformation of the social and political life of an individual. How does Dostoevsky critique this new condition? Being in his early humanist period, he believed that a man afflicted by the commercialism of modernity loses his soul, and cannot experience the greater depths and meanings of life that the pre modern predecessors could enjoy. It is “an impoverishment of his humanity” and a loss of heroism. The loss of the chivalric mode is signaled by the trope of the woman in the window. As Golyadkin looks up to the window, anticipating his beloved to meet his gaze, he meets a “purely public gaze” that strips the protagonist’s aspirations of “idealist veneer.”

  31. Still reading the chapter in Gasperetti (see the Addendum), and I thought I’d add this passage:

    Dostoevskii supports this major attack on an orderly, natural progression of time with minor thrusts on just about every other page. Readers do not have to get very far into The Double before they accumulate a large inventory of the phrases “Goliadkin came to his senses” (opomnilsia) and “Goliadkin regained consciousness” (ochnulsia). For example, when the double crosses his path along the Fontanka, Dostoevskii’s incredulous protagonist is struck dumb and loses touch with everything around him. The narrator tells us that “whether Mr. Goliadkin’s disbelief lasted a long time or a short one, whether or not he sat on the curb for very long, I’m unable to say, but having regained his senses a bit, he suddenly set off running and didn’t look back.” Again and again Dostoevskii uses the device of his hero losing consciousness to challenge the temporal integrity of The Double. What, if anything, transpires during these blackouts? Is Goliadkin daydreaming? Do the events that follow these episodes actually take place in the streets and apartments of the northern capital or only in the mind of a deluded civil servant? Unfortunately for those readers seeking order, logic, and completion in Dostoevskii’s novel, these questions are impossible to answer.

    Dostoevskii’s treatment of space in The Double serves as a visual analogue to the function of time. In this stylization, action is frequently carried forward only in order to be swiftly annulled. Of the many examples of the protagonist’s self-effacing peripeteia in The Double, the most illuminating one occurs on the third evening of his adventures. […] The wild-goose chase described above is an appropriate visual metaphor for the plot of The Double. Goliadkin has traced a closed loop through St. Petersburg in an effort to find the key to his problems only to end up right back where he started. In effect, he returns home without having done or found out a single thing. His wanderings are just as empty as a November night in St. Petersburg — could anyone really be about in weather like this? — and they represent just one of the many ways in which The Double slowly but surely “fades into nothing.”

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