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Short Stories

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky · English · Gutenberg #40745 · 466,494 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Short Stories

Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky


        
Release date: September 13, 2012 [eBook #40745]
                Most recently updated: September 24, 2026

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHORT STORIES ***

                            SHORT STORIES


                       _By_ FIODOR DOSTOIEVSKI



                            [Illustration]




                             THE WORLD'S

                           POPULAR CLASSICS




                             BOOKS, INC.

                             _PUBLISHERS_

                      NEW YORK             BOSTON

       *       *       *       *       *




CONTENTS

                                                 PAGE

AN HONEST THIEF                                    1

A NOVEL IN NINE LETTERS                           21

AN UNPLEASANT PREDICAMENT                         36

ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE                               101

THE HEAVENLY CHRISTMAS TREE                      151

THE PEASANT MAREY                                156

THE CROCODILE                                    163

BOBOK                                            205

THE DREAM OF A RIDICULOUS MAN                    225

       *       *       *       *       *




AN HONEST THIEF


One morning, just as I was about to set off to my office, Agrafena, my
cook, washerwoman and housekeeper, came in to me and, to my surprise,
entered into conversation.

She had always been such a silent, simple creature that, except her daily
inquiry about dinner, she had not uttered a word for the last six years. I,
at least, had heard nothing else from her.

"Here I have come in to have a word with you, sir," she began abruptly;
"you really ought to let the little room."

"Which little room?"

"Why, the one next the kitchen, to be sure."

"What for?"

"What for? Why because folks do take in lodgers, to be sure."

"But who would take it?"

"Who would take it? Why, a lodger would take it, to be sure."

"But, my good woman, one could not put a bedstead in it; there wouldn't be
room to move! Who could live in it?"

"Who wants to live there! As long as he has a place to sleep in. Why, he
would live in the window."

"In what window?"

"In what window! As though you didn't know! The one in the passage, to be
sure. He would sit there, sewing or doing anything else. Maybe he would sit
on a chair, too. He's got a chair; and he has a table, too; he's got
everything."

"Who is 'he' then?"

"Oh, a good man, a man of experience. I will cook for him. And I'll ask
him three roubles a month for his board and lodging."

After prolonged efforts I succeeded at last in learning from Agrafena that
an elderly man had somehow managed to persuade her to admit him into the
kitchen as a lodger and boarder. Any notion Agrafena took into her head had
to be carried out; if not, I knew she would give me no peace. When anything
was not to her liking, she at once began to brood, and sank into a deep
dejection that would last for a fortnight or three weeks. During that
period my dinners were spoiled, my linen was mislaid, my floors went
unscrubbed; in short, I had a great deal to put up with. I had observed
long ago that this inarticulate woman was incapable of conceiving a
project, of originating an idea of her own. But if anything like a notion
or a project was by some means put into her feeble brain, to prevent its
being carried out meant, for a time, her moral assassination. And so, as I
cared more for my peace of mind than for anything else, I consented
forthwith.

"Has he a passport anyway, or something of the sort?"

"To be sure, he has. He is a good man, a man of experience; three roubles
he's promised to pay."

The very next day the new lodger made his appearance in my modest bachelor
quarters; but I was not put out by this, indeed I was inwardly pleased. I
lead as a rule a very lonely hermit's existence. I have scarcely any
friends; I hardly ever go anywhere. As I had spent ten years never coming
out of my shell, I had, of course, grown used to solitude. But another ten
or fifteen years or more of the same solitary existence, with the same
Agrafena, in the same bachelor quarters, was in truth a somewhat cheerless
prospect. And therefore a new inmate, if well-behaved, was a heaven-sent
blessing.

Agrafena had spoken truly: my lodger was certainly a man of experience.
From his passport it appeared that he was an old soldier, a fact which I
should have known indeed from his face. An old soldier is easily
recognised. Astafy Ivanovitch was a favourable specimen of his class. We
got on very well together. What was best of all, Astafy Ivanovitch would
sometimes tell a story, describing some incident in his own life. In the
perpetual boredom of my existence such a story-teller was a veritable
treasure. One day he told me one of these stories. It made an impression on
me. The following event was what led to it.

I was left alone in the flat; both Astafy and Agrafena were out on business
of their own. All of a sudden I heard from the inner room somebody--I
fancied a stranger--come in; I went out; there actually was a stranger in
the passage, a short fellow wearing no overcoat in spite of the cold autumn
weather.

"What do you want?"

"Does a clerk called Alexandrov live here?"

"Nobody of that name here, brother. Good-bye."

"Why, the dvornik told me it was here," said my visitor, cautiously
retiring towards the door.

"Be off, be off, brother, get along."

Next day after dinner, while Astafy Ivanovitch was fitting on a coat which
he was altering for me, again some one came into the passage. I half opened
the door.

Before my very eyes my yesterday's visitor, with perfect composure, took my
wadded greatcoat from the peg and, stuffing it under his arm, darted out of
the flat. Agrafena stood all the time staring at him, agape with
astonishment and doing nothing for the protection of my property. Astafy
Ivanovitch flew in pursuit of the thief and ten minutes later came back out
of breath and empty-handed. He had vanished completely.

"Well, there's a piece of luck, Astafy Ivanovitch!"

"It's a good job your cloak is left! Or he would have put you in a plight,
the thief!"

But the whole incident had so impressed Astafy Ivanovitch that I forgot the
theft as I looked at him. He could not get over it. Every minute or two he
would drop the work upon which he was engaged, and would describe over
again how it had all happened, how he had been standing, how the greatcoat
had been taken down before his very eyes, not a yard away, and how it had
come to pass that he could not catch the thief. Then he would sit down to
his work again, then leave it once more, and at last I saw him go down to
the dvornik to tell him all about it, and to upbraid him for letting such a
thing happen in his domain. Then he came back and began scolding Agrafena.
Then he sat down to his work again, and long afterwards he was still
muttering to himself how it had all happened, how he stood there and I was
here, how before our eyes, not a yard away, the thief took the coat off the
peg, and so on. In short, though Astafy Ivanovitch understood his business,
he was a terrible slow-coach and busy-body.

"He's made fools of us, Astafy Ivanovitch," I said to him in the evening,
as I gave him a glass of tea. I wanted to while away the time by recalling
the story of the lost greatcoat, the frequent repetition of which, together
with the great earnestness of the speaker, was beginning to become very
amusing.

"Fools, indeed, sir! Even though it is no business of mine, I am put out.
It makes me angry though it is not my coat that was lost. To my thinking
there is no vermin in the world worse than a thief. Another takes what you
can spare, but a thief steals the work of your hands, the sweat of your
brow, your time ... Ugh, it's nasty! One can't speak of it! it's too
vexing. How is it you don't feel the loss of your property, sir?"

"Yes, you are right, Astafy Ivanovitch, better if the thing had been
burnt; it's annoying to let the thief have it, it's disagreeable."

"Disagreeable! I should think so! Yet, to be sure, there are thieves and
thieves. And I have happened, sir, to come across an honest thief."

"An honest thief? But how can a thief be honest, Astafy Ivanovitch?"

"There you are right indeed, sir. How can a thief be honest? There are none
such. I only meant to say that he was an honest man, sure enough, and yet
he stole. I was simply sorry for him."

"Why, how was that, Astafy Ivanovitch?"

"It was about two years ago, sir. I had been nearly a year out of a place,
and just before I lost my place I made the acquaintance of a poor lost
creature. We got acquainted in a public-house. He was a drunkard, a
vagrant, a beggar, he had been in a situation of some sort, but from his
drinking habits he had lost his work. Such a ne'er-do-weel! God only knows
what he had on! Often you wouldn't be sure if he'd a shirt under his coat;
everything he could lay his hands upon he would drink away. But he was not
one to quarrel; he was a quiet fellow. A soft, good-natured chap. And he'd
never ask, he was ashamed; but you could see for yourself the poor fellow
wanted a drink, and you would stand it him. And so we got friendly, that's
to say, he stuck to me.... It was all one to me. And what a man he was, to
be sure! Like a little dog he would follow me; wherever I went there he
would be; and all that after our first meeting, and he as thin as a
thread-paper! At first it was 'let me stay the night'; well, I let him
stay.

"I looked at his passport, too; the man was all right.

"Well, the next day it was the same story, and then the third day he came
again and sat all day in the window and stayed the night. Well, thinks I,
he is sticking to me; give him food and drink and shelter at night,
too--here am I, a poor man, and a hanger-on to keep as well! And before he
came to me, he used to go in the same way to a government clerk's; he
attached himself to him; they were always drinking together; but he,
through trouble of some sort, drank himself into the grave. My man was
called Emelyan Ilyitch. I pondered and pondered what I was to do with him.
To drive him away I was ashamed. I was sorry for him; such a pitiful,
God-forsaken creature I never did set eyes on. And not a word said either;
he does not ask, but just sits there and looks into your eyes like a dog.
To think what drinking will bring a man down to!

"I keep asking myself how am I to say to him: 'You must be moving,
Emelyanoushka, there's nothing for you here, you've come to the wrong
place; I shall soon not have a bite for myself, how am I to keep you too?'

"I sat and wondered what he'd do when I said that to him. And I seemed to
see how he'd stare at me, if he were to hear me say that, how long he would
sit and not understand a word of it. And when it did get home to him at
last, how he would get up from the window, would take up his bundle--I can
see it now, the red-check handkerchief full of holes, with God knows what
wrapped up in it, which he had always with him, and then how he would set
his shabby old coat to rights, so that it would look decent and keep him
warm, so that no holes would be seen--he was a man of delicate feelings!
And how he'd open the door and go out with tears in his eyes. Well, there's
no letting a man go to ruin like that.... One's sorry for him.

"And then again, I think, how am I off myself? Wait a bit, Emelyanoushka,
says I to myself, you've not long to feast with me: I shall soon be going
away and then you will not find me.

"Well, sir, our family made a move; and Alexandr Filimonovitch, my master
(now deceased, God rest his soul), said, 'I am thoroughly satisfied with
you, Astafy Ivanovitch; when we come back from the country we will take
you on again.' I had been butler with them; a nice gentleman he was, but he
died that same year. Well, after seeing him off, I took my belongings, what
little money I had, and I thought I'd have a rest for a time, so I went to
an old woman I knew, and I took a corner in her room. There was only one
corner free in it. She had been a nurse, so now she had a pension and a
room of her own. Well, now good-bye, Emelyanoushka, thinks I, you won't
find me now, my boy.

"And what do you think, sir? I had gone out to see a man I knew, and when I
came back in the evening, the first thing I saw was Emelyanoushka! There he
was, sitting on my box and his check bundle beside him; he was sitting in
his ragged old coat, waiting for me. And to while away the time he had
borrowed a church book from the old lady, and was holding it wrong side
upwards. He'd scented me out! My heart sank. Well, thinks I, there's no
help for it--why didn't I turn him out at first? So I asked him straight
off: Have you brought your passport, Emelyanoushka?'

"I sat down on the spot, sir, and began to ponder: will a vagabond like
that be very much trouble to me? And on thinking it over it seemed he would
not be much trouble. He must be fed, I thought. Well, a bit of bread in the
morning, and to make it go down better I'll buy him an onion. At midday I
should have to give him another bit of bread and an onion; and in the
evening, onion again with kvass, with some more bread if he wanted it. And
if some cabbage soup were to come our way, then we should both have had our
fill. I am no great eater myself, and a drinking man, as we all know, never
eats; all he wants is herb-brandy or green vodka. He'll ruin me with his
drinking, I thought, but then another idea came into my head, sir, and took
great hold on me. So much so that if Emelyanoushka had gone away I should
have felt that I had nothing to live for, I do believe.... I determined on
the spot to be a father and guardian to him. I'll keep him from ruin, I
thought, I'll wean him from the glass! You wait a bit, thought I; very
well, Emelyanoushka, you may stay, only you must behave yourself; you must
obey orders.

"Well, thinks I to myself, I'll begin by training him to work of some sort,
but not all at once; let him enjoy himself a little first, and I'll look
round and find something you are fit for, Emelyanoushka. For every sort of
work a man needs a special ability, you know, sir. And I began to watch him
on the quiet; I soon saw Emelyanoushka was a desperate character. I began,
sir, with a word of advice: I said this and that to him. 'Emelyanoushka,'
said I, 'you ought to take a thought and mend your ways. Have done with
drinking! Just look what rags you go about in: that old coat of yours, if I
may make bold to say so, is fit for nothing but a sieve. A pretty state of
things! It's time to draw the line, sure enough.' Emelyanoushka sat and
listened to me with his head hanging down. Would you believe it, sir? It
had come to such a pass with him, he'd lost his tongue through drink and
could not speak a word of sense. Talk to him of cucumbers and he'd answer
back about beans! He would listen and listen to me and then heave such a
sigh. 'What are you sighing for, Emelyan Ilyitch?' I asked him.

"'Oh, nothing; don't you mind me, Astafy Ivanovitch. Do you know there were
two women fighting in the street to-day, Astafy Ivanovitch? One upset the
other woman's basket of cranberries by accident.'

"'Well, what of that?'

"'And the second one upset the other's cranberries on purpose and trampled
them under foot, too.'

"'Well, and what of it, Emelyan Ilyitch?'

"'Why, nothing, Astafy Ivanovitch, I just mentioned it.'

"'"Nothing, I just mentioned it!" Emelyanoushka, my boy, I thought, you've
squandered and drunk away your brains!'

"'And do you know, a gentleman dropped a money-note on the pavement in
Gorohovy Street, no, it was Sadovy Street. And a peasant saw it and said,
"That's my luck"; and at the same time another man saw it and said, "No,
it's my bit of luck. I saw it before you did."'

"'Well, Emelyan Ilyitch?'

"'And the fellows had a fight over it, Astafy Ivanovitch. But a policeman
came up, took away the note, gave it back to the gentleman and threatened
to take up both the men.'

"'Well, but what of that? What is there edifying about it, Emelyanoushka?'

"'Why, nothing, to be sure. Folks laughed, Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"'Ach, Emelyanoushka! What do the folks matter? You've sold your soul for a
brass farthing! But do you know what I have to tell you, Emelyan Ilyitch?'

"'What, Astafy Ivanovitch?'

"'Take a job of some sort, that's what you must do. For the hundredth time
I say to you, set to work, have some mercy on yourself!'

"'What could I set to, Astafy Ivanovitch? I don't know what job I could set
to, and there is no one who will take me on, Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"'That's how you came to be turned off, Emelyanoushka, you drinking man!'

"'And do you know Vlass, the waiter, was sent for to the office to-day,
Astafy Ivanovitch?'

"'Why did they send for him, Emelyanoushka?' I asked.

"'I could not say why, Astafy Ivanovitch. I suppose they wanted him there,
and that's why they sent for him.'

"A-ach, thought I, we are in a bad way, poor Emelyanoushka! The Lord is
chastising us for our sins. Well, sir, what is one to do with such a man?

"But a cunning fellow he was, and no mistake. He'd listen and listen to me,
but at last I suppose he got sick of it. As soon as he sees I am beginning
to get angry, he'd pick up his old coat and out he'd slip and leave no
trace. He'd wander about all day and come back at night drunk. Where he got
the money from, the Lord only knows; I had no hand in that.

"'No,' said I, 'Emelyan Ilyitch, you'll come to a bad end. Give over
drinking, mind what I say now, give it up! Next time you come home in
liquor, you can spend the night on the stairs. I won't let you in!'

"After hearing that threat, Emelyanoushka sat at home that day and the
next; but on the third he slipped off again. I waited and waited; he didn't
come back. Well, at least I don't mind owning, I was in a fright, and I
felt for the man too. What have I done to him? I thought. I've scared him
away. Where's the poor fellow gone to now? He'll get lost maybe. Lord have
mercy upon us!

"Night came on, he did not come. In the morning I went out into the porch;
I looked, and if he hadn't gone to sleep in the porch! There he was with
his head on the step, and chilled to the marrow of his bones.

"'What next, Emelyanoushka, God have mercy on you! Where will you get to
next!'

"'Why, you were--sort of--angry with me, Astafy Ivanovitch, the other day,
you were vexed and promised to put me to sleep in the porch, so I
didn't--sort of--venture to come in, Astafy Ivanovitch, and so I lay down
here....'

"I did feel angry and sorry too.

"'Surely you might undertake some other duty, Emelyanoushka, instead of
lying here guarding the steps,' I said.

"'Why, what other duty, Astafy Ivanovitch?'

"'You lost soul'--I was in such a rage, I called him that--'if you could
but learn tailoring work! Look at your old rag of a coat! It's not enough
to have it in tatters, here you are sweeping the steps with it! You might
take a needle and boggle up your rags, as decency demands. Ah, you drunken
man!'

"What do you think, sir? He actually did take a needle. Of course I said it
in jest, but he was so scared he set to work. He took off his coat and
began threading the needle. I watched him; as you may well guess, his eyes
were all red and bleary, and his hands were all of a shake. He kept shoving
and shoving the thread and could not get it through the eye of the needle;
he kept screwing his eyes up and wetting the thread and twisting it in his
fingers--it was no good! He gave it up and looked at me.

"'Well,' said I, 'this is a nice way to treat me! If there had been folks
by to see, I don't know what I should have done! Why, you simple fellow, I
said it you in joke, as a reproach. Give over your nonsense, God bless you!
Sit quiet and don't put me to shame, don't sleep on my stairs and make a
laughing-stock of me.'

"'Why, what am I to do, Astafy Ivanovitch? I know very well I am a
drunkard and good for nothing! I can do nothing but vex you, my
bene--bene--factor....'

"And at that his blue lips began all of a sudden to quiver, and a tear ran
down his white cheek and trembled on his stubbly chin, and then poor
Emelyanoushka burst into a regular flood of tears. Mercy on us! I felt as
though a knife were thrust into my heart! The sensitive creature! I'd never
have expected it. Who could have guessed it? No, Emelyanoushka, thought I,
I shall give you up altogether. You can go your way like the rubbish you
are.

"Well, sir, why make a long story of it? And the whole affair is so
trifling; it's not worth wasting words upon. Why, you, for instance, sir,
would not have given a thought to it, but I would have given a great
deal--if I had a great deal to give--that it never should have happened at
all.

"I had a pair of riding breeches by me, sir, deuce take them, fine,
first-rate riding breeches they were too, blue with a check on it. They'd
been ordered by a gentleman from the country, but he would not have them
after all; said they were not full enough, so they were left on my hands.
It struck me they were worth something. At the second-hand dealer's I ought
to get five silver roubles for them, or if not I could turn them into two
pairs of trousers for Petersburg gentlemen and have a piece over for a
waistcoat for myself. Of course for poor people like us everything comes
in. And it happened just then that Emelyanoushka was having a sad time of
it. There he sat day after day: he did not drink, not a drop passed his
lips, but he sat and moped like an owl. It was sad to see him--he just sat
and brooded. Well, thought I, either you've not got a copper to spend, my
lad, or else you're turning over a new leaf of yourself, you've given it
up, you've listened to reason. Well, sir, that's how it was with us; and
just then came a holiday. I went to vespers; when I came home I found
Emelyanoushka sitting in the window, drunk and rocking to and fro.

"Ah! so that's what you've been up to, my lad! And I went to get something
out of my chest. And when I looked in, the breeches were not there.... I
rummaged here and there; they'd vanished. When I'd ransacked everywhere and
saw they were not there, something seemed to stab me to the heart. I ran
first to the old dame and began accusing her; of Emelyanoushka I'd not the
faintest suspicion, though there was cause for it in his sitting there
drunk.

"'No,' said the old body, 'God be with you, my fine gentleman, what good
are riding breeches to me? Am I going to wear such things? Why, a skirt I
had I lost the other day through a fellow of your sort ... I know nothing;
I can tell you nothing about it,' she said.

"'Who has been here, who has been in?' I asked.

"'Why, nobody has been, my good sir,' says she; 'I've been here all the
while; Emelyan Ilyitch went out and came back again; there he sits, ask
him.'

"'Emelyanoushka,' said I, 'have you taken those new riding breeches for
anything; you remember the pair I made for that gentleman from the
country?'

"'No, Astafy Ivanovitch,' said he; 'I've not--sort of--touched them.'

"I was in a state! I hunted high and low for them--they were nowhere to be
found. And Emelyanoushka sits there rocking himself to and fro. I was
squatting on my heels facing him and bending over the chest, and all at
once I stole a glance at him.... Alack, I thought; my heart suddenly grew
hot within me and I felt myself flushing up too. And suddenly Emelyanoushka
looked at me.

"'No, Astafy Ivanovitch,' said he, 'those riding breeches of yours, maybe,
you are thinking, maybe, I took them, but I never touched them.'

"'But what can have become of them, Emelyan Ilyitch?'

"'No, Astafy Ivanovitch,' said he, 'I've never seen them.'

"'Why, Emelyan Ilyitch, I suppose they've run off of themselves, eh?'

"'Maybe they have, Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"When I heard him say that, I got up at once, went up to him, lighted the
lamp and sat down to work to my sewing. I was altering a waistcoat for a
clerk who lived below us. And wasn't there a burning pain and ache in my
breast! I shouldn't have minded so much if I had put all the clothes I had
in the fire. Emelyanoushka seemed to have an inkling of what a rage I was
in. When a man is guilty, you know, sir, he scents trouble far off, like
the birds of the air before a storm.

"'Do you know what, Astafy Ivanovitch,' Emelyanoushka began, and his poor
old voice was shaking as he said the words, 'Antip Prohoritch, the
apothecary, married the coachman's wife this morning, who died the other
day----'

"I did give him a look, sir, a nasty look it was; Emelyanoushka understood
it too. I saw him get up, go to the bed, and begin to rummage there for
something. I waited--he was busy there a long time and kept muttering all
the while, 'No, not there, where can the blessed things have got to!' I
waited to see what he'd do; I saw him creep under the bed on all fours. I
couldn't bear it any longer. 'What are you crawling about under the bed
for, Emelyan Ilyitch?' said I.

"'Looking for the breeches, Astafy Ivanovitch. Maybe they've dropped down
there somewhere.'

"'Why should you try to help a poor simple man like me,' said I, 'crawling
on your knees for nothing, sir?'--I called him that in my vexation.

"'Oh, never mind, Astafy Ivanovitch, I'll just look. They'll turn up,
maybe, somewhere.'

"'H'm,' said I, 'look here, Emelyan Ilyitch!'

"'What is it, Astafy Ivanovitch?' said he.

"'Haven't you simply stolen them from me like a thief and a robber, in
return for the bread and salt you've eaten here?' said I.

"I felt so angry, sir, at seeing him fooling about on his knees before me.

"'No, Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"And he stayed lying as he was on his face under the bed. A long time he
lay there and then at last crept out. I looked at him and the man was as
white as a sheet. He stood up, and sat down near me in the window and sat
so for some ten minutes.

"'No, Astafy Ivanovitch,' he said, and all at once he stood up and came
towards me, and I can see him now; he looked dreadful. 'No, Astafy
Ivanovitch,' said he, 'I never--sort of--touched your breeches.'

"He was all of a shake, poking himself in the chest with a trembling
finger, and his poor old voice shook so that I was frightened, sir, and sat
as though I was rooted to the window-seat.

"'Well, Emelyan Ilyitch,' said I, 'as you will, forgive me if I, in my
foolishness, have accused you unjustly. As for the breeches, let them go
hang; we can live without them. We've still our hands, thank God; we need
not go thieving or begging from some other poor man; we'll earn our bread.'

"Emelyanoushka heard me out and went on standing there before me. I looked
up, and he had sat down. And there he sat all the evening without stirring.
At last I lay down to sleep. Emelyanoushka went on sitting in the same
place. When I looked out in the morning, he was lying curled up in his old
coat on the bare floor; he felt too crushed even to come to bed. Well, sir,
I felt no more liking for the fellow from that day, in fact for the first
few days I hated him. I felt as one may say as though my own son had robbed
me, and done me a deadly hurt. Ach, thought I, Emelyanoushka,
Emelyanoushka! And Emelyanoushka, sir, went on drinking for a whole
fortnight without stopping. He was drunk all the time, and regularly
besotted. He went out in the morning and came back late at night, and for a
whole fortnight I didn't get a word out of him. It was as though grief was
gnawing at his heart, or as though he wanted to do for himself completely.
At last he stopped; he must have come to the end of all he'd got, and then
he sat in the window again. I remember he sat there without speaking for
three days and three nights; all of a sudden I saw that he was crying. He
was just sitting there, sir, and crying like anything; a perfect stream, as
though he didn't know how his tears were flowing. And it's a sad thing,
sir, to see a grown-up man and an old man, too, crying from woe and grief.

"'What's the matter, Emelyanoushka?' said I.

"He began to tremble so that he shook all over. I spoke to him for the
first time since that evening.

"'Nothing, Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"'God be with you, Emelyanoushka, what's lost is lost. Why are you moping
about like this?' I felt sorry for him.

"'Oh, nothing, Astafy Ivanovitch, it's no matter. I want to find some work
to do, Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"'And what sort of work, pray, Emelyanoushka?'

"'Why, any sort; perhaps I could find a situation such as I used to have.
I've been already to ask Fedosay Ivanitch. I don't like to be a burden on
you, Astafy Ivanovitch. If I can find a situation, Astafy Ivanovitch, then
I'll pay it you all back, and make you a return for all your hospitality.'

"'Enough, Emelyanoushka, enough; let bygones be bygones--and no more to be
said about it. Let us go on as we used to do before.'

"'No, Astafy Ivanovitch, you, maybe, think--but I never touched your riding
breeches.'

"'Well, have it your own way; God be with you, Emelyanoushka.'

"'No, Astafy Ivanovitch, I can't go on living with you, that's clear. You
must excuse me, Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"'Why, God bless you, Emelyan Ilyitch, who's offending you and driving you
out of the place--am I doing it?'

"'No, it's not the proper thing for me to live with you like this, Astafy
Ivanovitch. I'd better be going.'

"He was so hurt, it seemed, he stuck to his point. I looked at him, and
sure enough, up he got and pulled his old coat over his shoulders.

"'But where are you going, Emelyan Ilyitch? Listen to reason: what are you
about? Where are you off to?'

"'No, good-bye, Astafy Ivanovitch, don't keep me now'--and he was
blubbering again--'I'd better be going. You're not the same now.'

"'Not the same as what? I am the same. But you'll be lost by yourself like
a poor helpless babe, Emelyan Ilyitch.'

"'No, Astafy Ivanovitch, when you go out now, you lock up your chest and it
makes me cry to see it, Astafy Ivanovitch. You'd better let me go, Astafy
Ivanovitch, and forgive me all the trouble I've given you while I've been
living with you.'

"Well, sir, the man went away. I waited for a day; I expected he'd be back
in the evening--no. Next day no sign of him, nor the third day either. I
began to get frightened; I was so worried, I couldn't drink, I couldn't
eat, I couldn't sleep. The fellow had quite disarmed me. On the fourth day
I went out to look for him; I peeped into all the taverns, to inquire for
him--but no, Emelyanoushka was lost. 'Have you managed to keep yourself
alive, Emelyanoushka?' I wondered. 'Perhaps he is lying dead under some
hedge, poor drunkard, like a sodden log.' I went home more dead than alive.
Next day I went out to look for him again. And I kept cursing myself that
I'd been such a fool as to let the man go off by himself. On the fifth day
it was a holiday--in the early morning I heard the door creak. I looked up
and there was my Emelyanoushka coming in. His face was blue and his hair
was covered with dirt as though he'd been sleeping in the street; he was as
thin as a match. He took off his old coat, sat down on the chest and looked
at me. I was delighted to see him, but I felt more upset about him than
ever. For you see, sir, if I'd been overtaken in some sin, as true as I am
here, sir, I'd have died like a dog before I'd have come back. But
Emelyanoushka did come back. And a sad thing it was, sure enough, to see a
man sunk so low. I began to look after him, to talk kindly to him, to
comfort him.

"'Well, Emelyanoushka,' said I, 'I am glad you've come back. Had you been
away much longer I should have gone to look for you in the taverns again
to-day. Are you hungry?'

"'No, Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"'Come, now, aren't you really? Here, brother, is some cabbage soup left
over from yesterday; there was meat in it; it is good stuff. And here is
some bread and onion. Come, eat it, it'll do you no harm.'

"I made him eat it, and I saw at once that the man had not tasted food for
maybe three days--he was as hungry as a wolf. So it was hunger that had
driven him to me. My heart was melted looking at the poor dear. 'Let me run
to the tavern,' thought I, 'I'll get something to ease his heart, and then
we'll make an end of it. I've no more anger in my heart against you,
Emelyanoushka!' I brought him some vodka. 'Here, Emelyan Ilyitch, let us
have a drink for the holiday. Like a drink? And it will do you good.' He
held out his hand, held it out greedily; he was just taking it, and then he
stopped himself. But a minute after I saw him take it, and lift it to his
mouth, spilling it on his sleeve. But though he got it to his lips he set
it down on the table again.

"'What is it, Emelyanoushka?'

"'Nothing, Astafy Ivanovitch, I--sort of----'

"'Won't you drink it?'

"'Well, Astafy Ivanovitch, I'm not--sort of--going to drink any more,
Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"'Do you mean you've given it up altogether, Emelyanoushka, or are you only
not going to drink to-day?'

"He did not answer. A minute later I saw him rest his head on his hand.

"'What's the matter, Emelyanoushka, are you ill?'

"'Why, yes, Astafy Ivanovitch, I don't feel well.'

"I took him and laid him down on the bed. I saw that he really was ill: his
head was burning hot and he was shivering with fever. I sat by him all day;
towards night he was worse. I mixed him some oil and onion and kvass and
bread broken up.

"'Come, eat some of this,' said I, 'and perhaps you'll be better.' He shook
his head. 'No,' said he, 'I won't have any dinner to-day, Astafy
Ivanovitch.'

"I made some tea for him, I quite flustered our old woman--he was no
better. Well, thinks I, it's a bad look-out! The third morning I went for a
medical gentleman. There was one I knew living close by, Kostopravov by
name. I'd made his acquaintance when I was in service with the
Bosomyagins; he'd attended me. The doctor come and looked at him. 'He's in
a bad way,' said he, 'it was no use sending for me. But if you like I can
give him a powder.' Well, I didn't give him a powder, I thought that's just
the doctor's little game; and then the fifth day came.

"He lay, sir, dying before my eyes. I sat in the window with my work in my
hands. The old woman was heating the stove. We were all silent. My heart
was simply breaking over him, the good-for-nothing fellow; I felt as if it
were a son of my own I was losing. I knew that Emelyanoushka was looking at
me. I'd seen the man all the day long making up his mind to say something
and not daring to.

"At last I looked up at him; I saw such misery in the poor fellow's eyes.
He had kept them fixed on me, but when he saw that I was looking at him, he
looked down at once.

"'Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"'What is it, Emelyanoushka?'

"'If you were to take my old coat to a second-hand dealer's, how much do
you think they'd give you for it, Astafy Ivanovitch?'

"'There's no knowing how much they'd give. Maybe they would give me a
rouble for it, Emelyan Ilyitch.'

"But if I had taken it they wouldn't have given a farthing for it, but
would have laughed in my face for bringing such a trumpery thing. I simply
said that to comfort the poor fellow, knowing the simpleton he was.

"'But I was thinking, Astafy Ivanovitch, they might give you three roubles
for it; it's made of cloth, Astafy Ivanovitch. How could they only give one
rouble for a cloth coat?'

"'I don't know, Emelyan Ilyitch,' said I, 'if you are thinking of taking it
you should certainly ask three roubles to begin with.'

"Emelyanoushka was silent for a time, and then he addressed me again--

"'Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"'What is it, Emelyanoushka?' I asked.

"'Sell my coat when I die, and don't bury me in it. I can lie as well
without it; and it's a thing of some value--it might come in useful.'

"I can't tell you how it made my heart ache to hear him. I saw that the
death agony was coming on him. We were silent again for a bit. So an hour
passed by. I looked at him again: he was still staring at me, and when he
met my eyes he looked down again.

"'Do you want some water to drink, Emelyan Ilyitch?' I asked.

"'Give me some, God bless you, Astafy Ivanovitch.'

"I gave him a drink.

"'Thank you, Astafy Ivanovitch,' said he.

"'Is there anything else you would like, Emelyanoushka?'

"'No, Astafy Ivanovitch, there's nothing I want, but I--sort of----'

"'What?'

"'I only----'

"'What is it, Emelyanoushka?'

"'Those riding breeches----it was----sort of----I who took them----Astafy
Ivanovitch.'

"'Well, God forgive you, Emelyanoushka,' said I, 'you poor, sorrowful
creature. Depart in peace.'

"And I was choking myself, sir, and the tears were in my eyes. I turned
aside for a moment.

"'Astafy Ivanovitch----'

"I saw Emelyanoushka wanted to tell me something; he was trying to sit up,
trying to speak, and mumbling something. He flushed red all over suddenly,
looked at me ... then I saw him turn white again, whiter and whiter, and he
seemed to sink away all in a minute. His head fell back, he drew one breath
and gave up his soul to God."




A NOVEL IN NINE LETTERS


I

(FROM PYOTR IVANITCH TO IVAN PETROVITCH)

DEAR SIR AND MOST PRECIOUS FRIEND, IVAN PETROVITCH,

For the last two days I have been, I may say, in pursuit of you, my friend,
having to talk over most urgent business with you, and I cannot come across
you anywhere. Yesterday, while we were at Semyon Alexeyitch's, my wife made
a very good joke about you, saying that Tatyana Petrovna and you were a
pair of birds always on the wing. You have not been married three months
and you already neglect your domestic hearth. We all laughed heartily--from
our genuine kindly feeling for you, of course--but, joking apart, my
precious friend, you have given me a lot of trouble. Semyon Alexeyitch said
to me that you might be going to the ball at the Social Union's club!
Leaving my wife with Semyon Alexeyitch's good lady, I flew off to the
Social Union. It was funny and tragic! Fancy my position! Me at the
ball--and alone, without my wife! Ivan Andreyitch meeting me in the
porter's lodge and seeing me alone, at once concluded (the rascal!) that I
had a passion for dances, and taking me by the arm, wanted to drag me off
by force to a dancing class, saying that it was too crowded at the Social
Union, that an ardent spirit had not room to turn, and that his head ached
from the patchouli and mignonette. I found neither you, nor Tatyana
Petrovna. Ivan Andreyitch vowed and declared that you would be at _Woe from
Wit_, at the Alexandrinsky theatre.

I flew off to the Alexandrinsky theatre: you were not there either. This
morning I expected to find you at Tchistoganov's--no sign of you there.
Tchistoganov sent to the Perepalkins'--the same thing there. In fact, I am
quite worn out; you can judge how much trouble I have taken! Now I am
writing to you (there is nothing else I can do). My business is by no means
a literary one (you understand me?); it would be better to meet face to
face, it is extremely necessary to discuss something with you and as
quickly as possible, and so I beg you to come to us to-day with Tatyana
Petrovna to tea and for a chat in the evening. My Anna Mihalovna will be
extremely pleased to see you. You will truly, as they say, oblige me to my
dying day. By the way, my precious friend--since I have taken up my pen
I'll go into all I have against you--I have a slight complaint I must make;
in fact, I must reproach you, my worthy friend, for an apparently very
innocent little trick which you have played at my expense.... You are a
rascal, a man without conscience. About the middle of last month, you
brought into my house an acquaintance of yours, Yevgeny Nikolaitch; you
vouched for him by your friendly and, for me, of course, sacred
recommendation; I rejoiced at the opportunity of receiving the young man
with open arms, and when I did so I put my head in a noose. A noose it
hardly is, but it has turned out a pretty business. I have not time now to
explain, and indeed it is an awkward thing to do in writing, only a very
humble request to you, my malicious friend: could you not somehow very
delicately, in passing, drop a hint into the young man's ear that there are
a great many houses in the metropolis besides ours? It's more than I can
stand, my dear fellow! We fall at your feet, as our friend Semyonovitch
says. I will tell you all about it when we meet. I don't mean to say that
the young man has sinned against good manners, or is lacking in spiritual
qualities, or is not up to the mark in some other way. On the contrary, he
is an amiable and pleasant fellow; but wait, we shall meet; meanwhile if
you see him, for goodness' sake whisper a hint to him, my good friend. I
would do it myself, but you know what I am, I simply can't, and that's all
about it. You introduced him. But I will explain myself more fully this
evening, anyway. Now good-bye. I remain, etc.

P.S.--My little boy has been ailing for the last week, and gets worse and
worse every day; he is cutting his poor little teeth. My wife is nursing
him all the time, and is depressed, poor thing. Be sure to come, you will
give us real pleasure, my precious friend.


II

(FROM IVAN PETROVITCH TO PYOTR IVANITCH)

DEAR SIR, PYOTR IVANITCH!

I got your letter yesterday, I read it and was perplexed. You looked for
me, goodness knows where, and I was simply at home. Till ten o'clock I was
expecting Ivan Ivanitch Tolokonov. At once on getting your letter I set out
with my wife, I went to the expense of taking a cab, and reached your house
about half-past six. You were not at home, but we were met by your wife. I
waited to see you till half-past ten, I could not stay later. I set off
with my wife, went to the expense of a cab again, saw her home, and went on
myself to the Perepalkins', thinking I might meet you there, but again I
was out in my reckoning. When I get home I did not sleep all night, I felt
uneasy; in the morning I drove round to you three times, at nine, at ten
and at eleven; three times I went to the expense of a cab, and again you
left me in the lurch.

I read your letter and was amazed. You write about Yevgeny Nikolaitch, beg
me to whisper some hint, and do not tell me what about. I commend your
caution, but all letters are not alike, and I don't give documents of
importance to my wife for curl-papers. I am puzzled, in fact, to know with
what motive you wrote all this to me. However, if it comes to that, why
should I meddle in the matter? I don't poke my nose into other people's
business. You can be not at home to him; I only see that I must have a
brief and decisive explanation with you, and, moreover, time is passing.
And I am in straits and don't know what to do if you are going to neglect
the terms of our agreement. A journey for nothing; a journey costs
something, too, and my wife's whining for me to get her a velvet mantle of
the latest fashion. About Yevgeny Nikolaitch I hasten to mention that when
I was at Pavel Semyonovitch Perepalkin's yesterday I made inquiries without
loss of time. He has five hundred serfs in the province of Yaroslav, and he
has expectations from his grandmother of an estate of three hundred serfs
near Moscow. How much money he has I cannot tell; I think you ought to know
that better. I beg you once for all to appoint a place where I can meet
you. You met Ivan Andreyitch yesterday, and you write that he told you that
I was at the Alexandrinsky theatre with my wife. I write, that he is a
liar, and it shows how little he is to be trusted in such cases, that only
the day before yesterday he did his grandmother out of eight hundred
roubles. I have the honour to remain, etc.

P.S.--My wife is going to have a baby; she is nervous about it and feels
depressed at times. At the theatre they sometimes have fire-arms going off
and sham thunderstorms. And so for fear of a shock to my wife's nerves I do
not take her to the theatre. I have no great partiality for the theatre
myself.


III

(FROM PYOTR IVANITCH TO IVAN PETROVITCH)

MY PRECIOUS FRIEND, IVAN PETROVITCH,

I am to blame, to blame, a thousand times to blame, but I hasten to defend
myself. Between five and six yesterday, just as we were talking of you with
the warmest affection, a messenger from Uncle Stepan Alexeyitch galloped up
with the news that my aunt was very bad. Being afraid of alarming my wife,
I did not say a word of this to her, but on the pretext of other urgent
business I drove off to my aunt's house. I found her almost dying. Just at
five o'clock she had had a stroke, the third she has had in the last two
years. Karl Fyodoritch, their family doctor, told us that she might not
live through the night. You can judge of my position, dearest friend. We
were on our legs all night in grief and anxiety. It was not till morning
that, utterly exhausted and overcome by moral and physical weakness, I lay
down on the sofa; I forgot to tell them to wake me, and only woke at
half-past eleven. My aunt was better. I drove home to my wife. She, poor
thing, was quite worn out expecting me. I snatched a bite of something,
embraced my little boy, reassured my wife and set off to call on you. You
were not at home. At your flat I found Yevgeny Nikolaitch. When I got home
I took up a pen, and here I am writing to you. Don't grumble and be cross
to me, my true friend. Beat me, chop my guilty head off my shoulders, but
don't deprive me of your affection. From your wife I learned that you will
be at the Slavyanovs' this evening. I will certainly be there. I look
forward with the greatest impatience to seeing you.

I remain, etc.

P.S.--We are in perfect despair about our little boy. Karl Fyodoritch
prescribes rhubarb. He moans. Yesterday he did not know any one. This
morning he did know us, and began lisping papa, mamma, boo.... My wife
was in tears the whole morning.


IV

(FROM IVAN PETROVITCH TO PYOTR IVANITCH)

MY DEAR SIR, PYOTR IVANITCH!

I am writing to you, in your room, at your bureau; and before taking up my
pen, I have been waiting for more than two and a half hours for you. Now
allow me to tell you straight out, Pyotr Ivanitch, my frank opinion about
this shabby incident. From your last letter I gathered that you were
expected at the Slavyanovs', that you were inviting me to go there; I
turned up, I stayed for five hours and there was no sign of you. Why, am I
to be made a laughing-stock to people, do you suppose? Excuse me, my dear
sir ... I came to you this morning, I hoped to find you, not imitating
certain deceitful persons who look for people, God knows where, when they
can be found at home at any suitably chosen time. There is no sign of you
at home. I don't know what restrains me from telling you now the whole
harsh truth. I will only say that I see you seem to be going back on your
bargain regarding our agreement. And only now reflecting on the whole
affair, I cannot but confess that I am absolutely astounded at the artful
workings of your mind. I see clearly now that you have been cherishing your
unfriendly design for a long time. This supposition of mine is confirmed by
the fact that last week in an almost unpardonable way you took possession
of that letter of yours addressed to me, in which you laid down yourself,
though rather vaguely and incoherently, the terms of our agreement in
regard to a circumstance of which I need not remind you. You are afraid of
documents, you destroy them, and you try to make a fool of me. But I won't
allow myself to be made a fool of, for no one has ever considered me one
hitherto, and every one has thought well of me in that respect. I am
opening my eyes. You try and put me off, confuse me with talk of Yevgeny
Nikolaitch, and when with your letter of the seventh of this month, which I
am still at a loss to understand, I seek a personal explanation from you,
you make humbugging appointments, while you keep out of the way. Surely you
do not suppose, sir, that I am not equal to noticing all this? You promised
to reward me for my services, of which you are very well aware, in the way
of introducing various persons, and at the same time, and I don't know how
you do it, you contrive to borrow money from me in considerable sums
without giving a receipt, as happened no longer ago than last week. Now,
having got the money, you keep out of the way, and what's more, you
repudiate the service I have done you in regard to Yevgeny Nikolaitch. You
are probably reckoning on my speedy departure to Simbirsk, and hoping I may
not have time to settle your business. But I assure you solemnly and
testify on my word of honour that if it comes to that, I am prepared to
spend two more months in Petersburg expressly to carry through my business,
to attain my objects, and to get hold of you. For I, too, on occasion know
how to get the better of people. In conclusion, I beg to inform you that if
you do not give me a satisfactory explanation to-day, first in writing, and
then personally face to face, and do not make a fresh statement in your
letter of the chief points of the agreement existing between us, and do not
explain fully your views in regard to Yevgeny Nikolaitch, I shall be
compelled to have recourse to measures that will be highly unpleasant to
you, and indeed repugnant to me also.

Allow me to remain, etc.


V

(FROM PYOTR IVANITCH TO IVAN PETROVITCH)

_November 11._

MY DEAR AND HONOURED FRIEND, IVAN PETROVITCH!

I was cut to the heart by your letter. I wonder you were not ashamed, my
dear but unjust friend, to behave like this to one of your most devoted
friends. Why be in such a hurry, and without explaining things fully, wound
me with such insulting suspicions? But I hasten to reply to your charges.
You did not find me yesterday, Ivan Petrovitch, because I was suddenly and
quite unexpectedly called away to a death-bed. My aunt, Yefimya Nikolaevna,
passed away yesterday evening at eleven o'clock in the night. By the
general consent of the relatives I was selected to make the arrangements
for the sad and sorrowful ceremony. I had so much to do that I had not time
to see you this morning, nor even to send you a line. I am grieved to the
heart at the misunderstanding which has arisen between us. My words about
Yevgeny Nikolaitch uttered casually and in jest you have taken in quite a
wrong sense, and have ascribed to them a meaning deeply offensive to me.
You refer to money and express your anxiety about it. But without wasting
words I am ready to satisfy all your claims and demands, though I must
remind you that the three hundred and fifty roubles I had from you last
week were in accordance with a certain agreement and not by way of a loan.
In the latter case there would certainly have been a receipt. I will not
condescend to discuss the other points mentioned in your letter. I see that
it is a misunderstanding. I see it is your habitual hastiness, hot temper
and obstinacy. I know that your goodheartedness and open character will not
allow doubts to persist in your heart, and that you will be, in fact, the
first to hold out your hand to me. You are mistaken, Ivan Petrovitch, you
are greatly mistaken!

Although your letter has deeply wounded me, I should be prepared even
to-day to come to you and apologise, but I have been since yesterday in
such a rush and flurry that I am utterly exhausted and can scarcely stand
on my feet. To complete my troubles, my wife is laid up; I am afraid she is
seriously ill. Our little boy, thank God, is better; but I must lay down my
pen, I have a mass of things to do and they are urgent. Allow me, my dear
friend, to remain, etc.


VI

(FROM IVAN PETROVITCH TO PYOTR IVANITCH)

_November 14._

DEAR SIR, PYOTR IVANITCH!

I have been waiting for three days, I tried to make a profitable use of
them--meanwhile I feel that politeness and good manners are the greatest of
ornaments for every one. Since my last letter of the tenth of this month, I
have neither by word nor deed reminded you of my existence, partly in order
to allow you undisturbed to perform the duty of a Christian in regard to
your aunt, partly because I needed the time for certain considerations and
investigations in regard to a business you know of. Now I hasten to explain
myself to you in the most thoroughgoing and decisive manner.

I frankly confess that on reading your first two letters I seriously
supposed that you did not understand what I wanted; that was how it was
that I rather sought an interview with you and explanations face to face. I
was afraid of writing, and blamed myself for lack of clearness in the
expression of my thoughts on paper. You are aware that I have not the
advantages of education and good manners, and that I shun a hollow show of
gentility because I have learned from bitter experience how misleading
appearances often are, and that a snake sometimes lies hidden under
flowers. But you understood me; you did not answer me as you should have
done because, in the treachery of your heart, you had planned beforehand to
be faithless to your word of honour and to the friendly relations existing
between us. You have proved this absolutely by your abominable conduct
towards me of late, which is fatal to my interests, which I did not expect
and which I refused to believe till the present moment. From the very
beginning of our acquaintance you captivated me by your clever manners, by
the subtlety of your behaviour, your knowledge of affairs and the
advantages to be gained by association with you. I imagined that I had
found a true friend and well-wisher. Now I recognise clearly that there are
many people who under a flattering and brilliant exterior hide venom in
their hearts, who use their cleverness to weave snares for their neighbour
and for unpardonable deception, and so are afraid of pen and paper, and at
the same time use their fine language not for the benefit of their
neighbour and their country, but to drug and bewitch the reason of those
who have entered into business relations of any sort with them. Your
treachery to me, my dear sir, can be clearly seen from what follows.

In the first place, when, in the clear and distinct terms of my letter, I
described my position, sir, and at the same time asked you in my first
letter what you meant by certain expressions and intentions of yours,
principally in regard to Yevgeny Nikolaitch, you tried for the most part to
avoid answering, and confounding me by doubts and suspicions, you calmly
put the subject aside. Then after treating me in a way which cannot be
described by any seemly word, you began writing that you were wounded.
Pray, what am I to call that, sir? Then when every minute was precious to
me and when you had set me running after you all over the town, you wrote,
pretending personal friendship, letters in which, intentionally avoiding
all mention of business, you spoke of utterly irrelevant matters; to wit,
of the illnesses of your good lady for whom I have, in any case, every
respect, and of how your baby had been dosed with rhubarb and was cutting a
tooth. All this you alluded to in every letter with a disgusting regularity
that was insulting to me. Of course I am prepared to admit that a father's
heart may be torn by the sufferings of his babe, but why make mention of
this when something different, far more important and interesting, was
needed? I endured it in silence, but now when time has elapsed I think it
my duty to explain myself. Finally, treacherously deceiving me several
times by making humbugging appointments, you tried, it seems, to make me
play the part of a fool and a laughing-stock for you, which I never intend
to be. Then after first inviting me and thoroughly deceiving me, you
informed me that you were called away to your suffering aunt who had had a
stroke, precisely at five o'clock as you stated with shameful exactitude.
Luckily for me, sir, in the course of these three days I have succeeded in
making inquiries and have learnt from them that your aunt had a stroke on
the day before the seventh not long before midnight. From this fact I see
that you have made use of sacred family relations in order to deceive
persons in no way concerned with them. Finally, in your last letter you
mention the death of your relatives as though it had taken place precisely
at the time when I was to have visited you to consult about various
business matters. But here the vileness of your arts and calculations
exceeds all belief, for from trustworthy information which I was able by a
lucky chance to obtain just in the nick of time, I have found out that your
aunt died twenty-four hours later than the time you so impiously fixed for
her decease in your letter. I shall never have done if I enumerate all the
signs by which I have discovered your treachery in regard to me. It is
sufficient, indeed, for any impartial observer that in every letter you
style me, your true friend, and call me all sorts of polite names, which
you do, to the best of my belief, for no other object than to put my
conscience to sleep.

I have come now to your principal act of deceit and treachery in regard to
me, to wit, your continual silence of late in regard to everything
concerning our common interests, in regard to your wicked theft of the
letter in which you stated, though in language somewhat obscure and not
perfectly intelligible to me, our mutual agreements, your barbarous
forcible loan of three hundred and fifty roubles which you borrowed from me
as your partner without giving any receipt, and finally, your abominable
slanders of our common acquaintance, Yevgeny Nikolaitch. I see clearly now
that you meant to show me that he was, if you will allow me to say so, like
a billy-goat, good for neither milk nor wool, that he was neither one thing
nor the other, neither fish nor flesh, which you put down as a vice in him
in your letter of the sixth instant. I knew Yevgeny Nikolaitch as a modest
and well-behaved young man, whereby he may well attract, gain and deserve
respect in society. I know also that every evening for the last fortnight
you've put into your pocket dozens and sometimes even hundreds of roubles,
playing games of chance with Yevgeny Nikolaitch. Now you disavow all this,
and not only refuse to compensate me for what I have suffered, but have
even appropriated money belonging to me, tempting me by suggestions that I
should be partner in the affair, and luring me with various advantages
which were to accrue. After having appropriated, in a most illegal way,
money of mine and of Yevgeny Nikolaitch's, you decline to compensate me,
resorting for that object to calumny with which you have unjustifiably
blackened in my eyes a man whom I, by my efforts and exertions, introduced
into your house. While on the contrary, from what I hear from your friends,
you are still almost slobbering over him, and give out to the whole world
that he is your dearest friend, though there is no one in the world such a
fool as not to guess at once what your designs are aiming at and what your
friendly relations really mean. I should say that they mean deceit,
treachery, forgetfulness of human duties and proprieties, contrary to the
law of God and vicious in every way. I take myself as a proof and example.
In what way have I offended you and why have you treated me in this godless
fashion?

I will end my letter. I have explained myself. Now in conclusion. If, sir,
you do not in the shortest possible time after receiving this letter return
me in full, first, the three hundred and fifty roubles I gave you, and,
secondly, all the sums that should come to me according to your promise, I
will have recourse to every possible means to compel you to return it, even
to open force, secondly to the protection of the laws, and finally I beg to
inform you that I am in possession of facts, which, if they remain in the
hands of your humble servant, may ruin and disgrace your name in the eyes
of all the world. Allow me to remain, etc.


VII

(FROM PYOTR IVANITCH TO IVAN PETROVITCH)

_November 15._

IVAN PETROVITCH!

When I received your vulgar and at the same time queer letter, my impulse
for the first minute was to tear it into shreds, but I have preserved it as
a curiosity. I do, however, sincerely regret our misunderstandings and
unpleasant relations. I did not mean to answer you. But I am compelled by
necessity. I must in these lines inform you that it would be very
unpleasant for me to see you in my house at any time; my wife feels the
same: she is in delicate health and the smell of tar upsets her. My wife
sends your wife the book, _Don Quixote de la Mancha_, with her sincere
thanks. As for the galoshes you say you left behind here on your last
visit, I must regretfully inform you that they are nowhere to be found.
They are still being looked for; but if they do not turn up, then I will
buy you a new pair.

I have the honour to remain your sincere friend,


VIII

On the sixteenth of November, Pyotr Ivanitch received by post two letters
addressed to him. Opening the first envelope, he took out a carefully
folded note on pale pink paper. The handwriting was his wife's. It was
addressed to Yevgeny Nikolaitch and dated November the second. There was
nothing else in the envelope. Pyotr Ivanitch read:

DEAR EUGÈNE,

Yesterday was utterly impossible. My husband was at home the whole evening.
Be sure to come to-morrow punctually at eleven. At half-past ten my husband
is going to Tsarskoe and not coming back till evening. I was in a rage all
night. Thank you for sending me the information and the correspondence.
What a lot of paper. Did she really write all that? She has style though;
many thanks, dear; I see that you love me. Don't be angry, but, for
goodness sake, come to-morrow.

A.

Pyotr Ivanitch tore open the other letter:

PYOTR IVANITCH,

I should never have set foot again in your house anyway; you need not have
troubled to soil paper about it.

Next week I am going to Simbirsk. Yevgany Nikolaitch remains your precious
and beloved friend. I wish you luck, and don't trouble about the galoshes.


IX

On the seventeenth of November Ivan Petrovitch received by post two letters
addressed to him. Opening the first letter, he took out a hasty and
carelessly written note. The handwriting was his wife's; it was addressed
to Yevgeny Nikolaitch, and dated August the fourth. There was nothing else
in the envelope. Ivan Petrovitch read:

       *       *       *       *       *

Good-bye, good-bye, Yevgeny Nikolaitch! The Lord reward you for this too.
May you be happy, but my lot is bitter, terribly bitter! It is your choice.
If it had not been for my aunt I should not have put such trust in you. Do
not laugh at me nor at my aunt. To-morrow is our wedding. Aunt is relieved
that a good man has been found, and that he will take me without a dowry. I
took a good look at him for the first time to-day. He seems good-natured.
They are hurrying me. Farewell, farewell.... My darling!! Think of me
sometimes; I shall never forget you. Farewell! I sign this last like my
first letter, do you remember?

TATYANA.

The second letter was as follows:

IVAN PETROVITCH,

To-morrow you will receive a new pair of galoshes. It is not my habit to
filch from other men's pockets, and I am not fond of picking up all sorts
of rubbish in the streets.

Yevgeny Nikolaitch is going to Simbirsk in a day or two on his
grandfather's business, and he has asked me to find a travelling companion
for him; wouldn't you like to take him with you?




AN UNPLEASANT PREDICAMENT


This unpleasant business occurred at the epoch when the regeneration of our
beloved fatherland and the struggle of her valiant sons towards new hopes
and destinies was beginning with irresistible force and with a touchingly
naïve impetuosity. One winter evening in that period, between eleven and
twelve o'clock, three highly respectable gentlemen were sitting in a
comfortable and even luxuriously furnished room in a handsome house of two
storeys on the Petersburg Side, and were engaged in a staid and edifying
conversation on a very interesting subject. These three gentlemen were all
of generals' rank. They were sitting round a little table, each in a soft
and handsome arm-chair, and as they talked, they quietly and luxuriously
sipped champagne. The bottle stood on the table on a silver stand with ice
round it. The fact was that the host, a privy councillor called Stepan
Nikiforovitch Nikiforov, an old bachelor of sixty-five, was celebrating his
removal into a house he had just bought, and as it happened, also his
birthday, which he had never kept before. The festivity, however, was not
on a very grand scale; as we have seen already, there were only two guests,
both of them former colleagues and former subordinates of Mr. Nikiforov;
that is, an actual civil councillor called Semyon Ivanovitch Shipulenko,
and another actual civil councillor, Ivan Ilyitch Pralinsky. They had
arrived to tea at nine o'clock, then had begun upon the wine, and knew that
at exactly half-past eleven they would have to set off home. Their host had
all his life been fond of regularity. A few words about him.

He had begun his career as a petty clerk with nothing to back him, had
quietly plodded on for forty-five years, knew very well what to work
towards, had no ambition to draw the stars down from heaven, though he had
two stars already, and particularly disliked expressing his own opinion on
any subject. He was honest, too, that is, it had not happened to him to do
anything particularly dishonest; he was a bachelor because he was an
egoist; he had plenty of brains, but he could not bear showing his
intelligence; he particularly disliked slovenliness and enthusiasm,
regarding it as moral slovenliness; and towards the end of his life had
become completely absorbed in a voluptuous, indolent comfort and systematic
solitude. Though he sometimes visited people of a rather higher rank than
his own, yet from his youth up he could never endure entertaining visitors
himself; and of late he had, if he did not play a game of patience, been
satisfied with the society of his dining-room clock, and would spend the
whole evening dozing in his arm-chair, listening placidly to its ticking
under its glass case on the chimney-piece. In appearance he was closely
shaven and extremely proper-looking, he was well-preserved, looking younger
than his age; he promised to go on living many years longer, and closely
followed the rules of the highest good breeding. His post was a fairly
comfortable one: he had to preside somewhere and to sign something. In
short, he was regarded as a first-rate man. He had only one passion, or
more accurately, one keen desire: that was, to have his own house, and a
house built like a gentleman's residence, not a commercial investment. His
desire was at last realised: he looked out and bought a house on the
Petersburg Side, a good way off, it is true, but it had a garden and was an
elegant house. The new owner decided that it was better for being a good
way off: he did not like entertaining at home, and for driving to see any
one or to the office he had a handsome carriage of a chocolate hue, a
coachman, Mihey, and two little but strong and handsome horses. All this
was honourably acquired by the careful frugality of forty years, so that
his heart rejoiced over it.

This was how it was that Stepan Nikiforovitch felt such pleasure in his
placid heart that he actually invited two friends to see him on his
birthday, which he had hitherto carefully concealed from his most intimate
acquaintances. He had special designs on one of these visitors. He lived in
the upper storey of his new house, and he wanted a tenant for the lower
half, which was built and arranged in exactly the same way. Stepan
Nikiforovitch was reckoning upon Semyon Ivanovitch Shipulenko, and had
twice that evening broached the subject in the course of conversation. But
Semyon Ivanovitch made no response. The latter, too, was a man who had
doggedly made a way for himself in the course of long years. He had black
hair and whiskers, and a face that always had a shade of jaundice. He was a
married man of morose disposition who liked to stay at home; he ruled his
household with a rod of iron; in his official duties he had the greatest
self-confidence. He, too, knew perfectly well what goal he was making for,
and better still, what he never would reach. He was in a good position, and
he was sitting tight there. Though he looked upon the new reforms with a
certain distaste, he was not particularly agitated about them: he was
extremely self-confident, and listened with a shade of ironical malice to
Ivan Ilyitch Pralinsky expatiating on new themes. All of them had been
drinking rather freely, however, so that Stepan Nikiforovitch himself
condescended to take part in a slight discussion with Mr. Pralinsky
concerning the latest reforms. But we must say a few words about his
Excellency, Mr. Pralinsky, especially as he is the chief hero of the
present story.

The actual civil councillor Ivan Ilyitch Pralinsky had only been "his
Excellency" for four months; in short, he was a young general. He was young
in years, too--only forty-three, no more--and he looked and liked to look
even younger. He was a tall, handsome man, he was smart in his dress, and
prided himself on its solid, dignified character; with great aplomb he
displayed an order of some consequence on his breast. From his earliest
childhood he had known how to acquire the airs and graces of aristocratic
society, and being a bachelor, dreamed of a wealthy and even aristocratic
bride. He dreamed of many other things, though he was far from being
stupid. At times he was a great talker, and even liked to assume a
parliamentary pose. He came of a good family. He was the son of a general,
and brought up in the lap of luxury; in his tender childhood he had been
dressed in velvet and fine linen, had been educated at an aristocratic
school, and though he acquired very little learning there he was successful
in the service, and had worked his way up to being a general. The
authorities looked upon him as a capable man, and even expected great
things from him in the future. Stepan Nikiforovitch, under whom Ivan
Ilyitch had begun his career in the service, and under whom he had remained
until he was made a general, had never considered him a good business man
and had no expectations of him whatever. What he liked in him was that he
belonged to a good family, had property--that is, a big block of buildings,
let out in flats, in charge of an overseer--was connected with persons of
consequence, and what was more, had a majestic bearing. Stepan
Nikiforovitch blamed him inwardly for excess of imagination and
instability. Ivan Ilyitch himself felt at times that he had too much
_amour-propre_ and even sensitiveness. Strange to say, he had attacks from
time to time of morbid tenderness of conscience and even a kind of faint
remorse. With bitterness and a secret soreness of heart he recognised now
and again that he did not fly so high as he imagined. At such moments he
sank into despondency, especially when he was suffering from hæmorrhoids,
called his life _une existence manquée_, and ceased--privately, of
course--to believe even in his parliamentary capacities, calling himself a
talker, a maker of phrases; and though all that, of course, did him great
credit, it did not in the least prevent him from raising his head again
half an hour later, and growing even more obstinately, even more
conceitedly self-confident, and assuring himself that he would yet succeed
in making his mark, and that he would be not only a great official, but a
statesman whom Russia would long remember. He actually dreamed at times of
monuments. From this it will be seen that Ivan Ilyitch aimed high, though
he hid his vague hopes and dreams deep in his heart, even with a certain
trepidation. In short, he was a good-natured man and a poet at heart. Of
late years these morbid moments of disillusionment had begun to be more
frequent. He had become peculiarly irritable, ready to take offence, and
was apt to take any contradiction as an affront. But reformed Russia gave
him great hopes. His promotion to general was the finishing touch. He was
roused; he held his head up. He suddenly began talking freely and
eloquently. He talked about the new ideas, which he very quickly and
unexpectedly made his own and professed with vehemence. He sought
opportunities for speaking, drove about the town, and in many places
succeeded in gaining the reputation of a desperate Liberal, which flattered
him greatly. That evening, after drinking four glasses, he was particularly
exuberant. He wanted on every point to confute Stepan Nikiforovitch, whom
he had not seen for some time past, and whom he had hitherto always
respected and even obeyed. He considered him for some reason reactionary,
and fell upon him with exceptional heat. Stepan Nikiforovitch hardly
answered him, but only listened slyly, though the subject interested him.
Ivan Ilyitch got hot, and in the heat of the discussion sipped his glass
more often than he ought to have done. Then Stepan Nikiforovitch took the
bottle and at once filled his glass again, which for some reason seemed to
offend Ivan Ilyitch, especially as Semyon Ivanovitch Shipulenko, whom he
particularly despised and indeed feared on account of his cynicism and
ill-nature, preserved a treacherous silence and smiled more frequently than
was necessary. "They seem to take me for a schoolboy," flashed across Ivan
Ilyitch's mind.

"No, it was time, high time," he went on hotly. "We have put it off too
long, and to my thinking humanity is the first consideration, humanity with
our inferiors, remembering that they, too, are men. Humanity will save
everything and bring out all that is...."

"He-he-he-he!" was heard from the direction of Semyon Ivanovitch.

"But why are you giving us such a talking to?" Stepan Nikiforovitch
protested at last, with an affable smile. "I must own, Ivan Ilyitch, I have
not been able to make out, so far, what you are maintaining. You advocate
humanity. That is love of your fellow-creatures, isn't it?"

"Yes, if you like. I...."

"Allow me! As far as I can see, that's not the only thing. Love of one's
fellow-creatures has always been fitting. The reform movement is not
confined to that. All sorts of questions have arisen relating to the
peasantry, the law courts, economics, government contracts, morals and ...
and ... and those questions are endless, and all together may give rise to
great upheavals, so to say. That is what we have been anxious about, and
not simply humanity...."

"Yes, the thing is a bit deeper than that," observed Semyon Ivanovitch.

"I quite understand, and allow me to observe, Semyon Ivanovitch, that I
can't agree to being inferior to you in depth of understanding," Ivan
Ilyitch observed sarcastically and with excessive sharpness. "However, I
will make so bold as to assert, Stepan Nikiforovitch, that you have not
understood me either...."

"No, I haven't."

"And yet I maintain and everywhere advance the idea that humanity and
nothing else with one's subordinates, from the official in one's department
down to the copying clerk, from the copying clerk down to the house serf,
from the servant down to the peasant--humanity, I say, may serve, so to
speak, as the corner-stone of the coming reforms and the reformation of
things in general. Why? Because. Take a syllogism. I am human, consequently
I am loved. I am loved, so confidence is felt in me. There is a feeling of
confidence, and so there is trust. There is trust, and so there is love ...
that is, no, I mean to say that if they trust me they will believe in the
reforms, they will understand, so to speak, the essential nature of them,
will, so to speak, embrace each other in a moral sense, and will settle the
whole business in a friendly way, fundamentally. What are you laughing at,
Semyon Ivanovitch? Can't you understand?"

Stepan Nikiforovitch raised his eyebrows without speaking; he was
surprised.

"I fancy I have drunk a little too much," said Semyon Ivanovitch
sarcastically, "and so I am a little slow of comprehension. Not quite all
my wits about me."

Ivan Ilyitch winced.

"We should break down," Stepan Nikiforovitch pronounced suddenly, after a
slight pause of hesitation.

"How do you mean we should break down?" asked Ivan Ilyitch, surprised at
Stepan Nikiforovitch's abrupt remark.

"Why, we should break under the strain." Stepan Nikiforovitch evidently did
not care to explain further.

"I suppose you are thinking of new wine in old bottles?" Ivan Ilyitch
replied, not without irony. "Well, I can answer for myself, anyway."

At that moment the clock struck half-past eleven.

"One sits on and on, but one must go at last," said Semyon Ivanovitch,
getting up. But Ivan Ilyitch was before him; he got up from the table and
took his sable cap from the chimney-piece. He looked as though he had been
insulted.

"So how is it to be, Semyon Ivanovitch? Will you think it over?" said
Stepan Nikiforovitch, as he saw the visitors out.

"About the flat, you mean? I'll think it over, I'll think it over."

"Well, when you have made up your mind, let me know as soon as possible."

"Still on business?" Mr. Pralinsky observed affably, in a slightly
ingratiating tone, playing with his hat. It seemed to him as though they
were forgetting him.

Stepan Nikiforovitch raised his eyebrows and remained mute, as a sign that
he would not detain his visitors. Semyon Ivanovitch made haste to bow
himself out.

"Well ... after that what is one to expect ... if you don't understand the
simple rules of good manners...." Mr. Pralinsky reflected to himself, and
held out his hand to Stepan Nikiforovitch in a particularly offhand way.

In the hall Ivan Ilyitch wrapped himself up in his light, expensive fur
coat; he tried for some reason not to notice Semyon Ivanovitch's shabby
raccoon, and they both began descending the stairs.

"The old man seemed offended," said Ivan Ilyitch to the silent Semyon
Ivanovitch.

"No, why?" answered the latter with cool composure.

"Servile flunkey," Ivan Ilyitch thought to himself.

They went out at the front door. Semyon Ivanovitch's sledge with a grey
ugly horse drove up.

"What the devil! What has Trifon done with my carriage?" cried Ivan
Ilyitch, not seeing his carriage.

The carriage was nowhere to be seen. Stepan Nikiforovitch's servant knew
nothing about it. They appealed to Varlam, Semyon Ivanovitch's coachman,
and received the answer that he had been standing there all the time and
that the carriage had been there, but now there was no sign of it.

"An unpleasant predicament," Mr. Shipulenko pronounced. "Shall I take you
home?"

"Scoundrelly people!" Mr. Pralinsky cried with fury. "He asked me, the
rascal, to let him go to a wedding close here in the Petersburg Side; some
crony of his was getting married, deuce take her! I sternly forbade him to
absent himself, and now I'll bet he has gone off there."

"He certainly has gone there, sir," observed Varlam; "but he promised to be
back in a minute, to be here in time, that is."

"Well, there it is! I had a presentiment that this would happen! I'll give
it to him!"

"You'd better give him a good flogging once or twice at the police station,
then he will do what you tell him," said Semyon Ivanovitch, as he wrapped
the rug round him.

"Please don't you trouble, Semyon Ivanovitch!"

"Well, won't you let me take you along?"

"_Merci, bon voyage._"

Semyon Ivanovitch drove off, while Ivan Ilyitch set off on foot along the
wooden pavement, conscious of a rather acute irritation.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Yes, indeed I'll give it to you now, you rogue! I am going on foot on
purpose to make you feel it, to frighten you! He will come back and hear
that his master has gone off on foot ... the blackguard!"

Ivan Ilyitch had never abused any one like this, but he was greatly
angered, and besides, there was a buzzing in his head. He was not given to
drink, so five or six glasses soon affected him. But the night was
enchanting. There was a frost, but it was remarkably still and there was no
wind. There was a clear, starry sky. The full moon was bathing the earth in
soft silver light. It was so lovely that after walking some fifty paces
Ivan Ilyitch almost forgot his troubles. He felt particularly pleased.
People quickly change from one mood to another when they are a little
drunk. He was even pleased with the ugly little wooden houses of the
deserted street.

"It's really a capital thing that I am walking," he thought; "it's a lesson
to Trifon and a pleasure to me. I really ought to walk oftener. And I shall
soon pick up a sledge on the Great Prospect. It's a glorious night. What
little houses they all are! I suppose small fry live here, clerks,
tradesmen, perhaps.... That Stepan Nikiforovitch! What reactionaries they
all are, those old fogies! Fogies, yes, _c'est le mot_. He is a sensible
man, though; he has that _bon sens_, sober, practical understanding of
things. But they are old, old. There is a lack of ... what is it? There is
a lack of something.... 'We shall break down.' What did he mean by that? He
actually pondered when he said it. He didn't understand me a bit. And yet
how could he help understanding? It was more difficult not to understand it
than to understand it. The chief thing is that I am convinced, convinced in
my soul. Humanity ... the love of one's kind. Restore a man to himself,
revive his personal dignity, and then ... when the ground is prepared, get
to work. I believe that's clear? Yes! Allow me, your Excellency; take a
syllogism, for instance: we meet, for instance, a clerk, a poor,
downtrodden clerk. 'Well ... who are you?' Answer: 'A clerk.' Very good, a
clerk; further: 'What sort of clerk are you?' Answer: 'I am such and such a
clerk,' he says. 'Are you in the service?' 'I am.' 'Do you want to be
happy?' 'I do.' 'What do you need for happiness?' 'This and that.' 'Why?'
'Because....' and there the man understands me with a couple of words, the
man's mine, the man is caught, so to speak, in a net, and I can do what I
like with him, that is, for his good. Horrid man that Semyon Ivanovitch!
And what a nasty phiz he has!... 'Flog him in the police station,' he said
that on purpose. No, you are talking rubbish; you can flog, but I'm not
going to; I shall punish Trifon with words, I shall punish him with
reproaches, he will feel it. As for flogging, h'm! ... it is an open
question, h'm!... What about going to Emerance? Oh, damnation take it, the
cursed pavement!" he cried out, suddenly tripping up. "And this is the
capital. Enlightenment! One might break one's leg. H'm! I detest that
Semyon Ivanovitch; a most revolting phiz. He was chuckling at me just now
when I said they would embrace each other in a moral sense. Well, and they
will embrace each other, and what's that to do with you? I am not going to
embrace you; I'd rather embrace a peasant.... If I meet a peasant, I shall
talk to him. I was drunk, though, and perhaps did not express myself
properly. Possibly I am not expressing myself rightly now.... H'm! I shall
never touch wine again. In the evening you babble, and next morning you are
sorry for it. After all, I am walking quite steadily.... But they are all
scoundrels, anyhow!"

So Ivan Ilyitch meditated incoherently and by snatches, as he went on
striding along the pavement. The fresh air began to affect him, set his
mind working. Five minutes later he would have felt soothed and sleepy. But
all at once, scarcely two paces from the Great Prospect, he heard music. He
looked round. On the other side of the street, in a very
tumble-down-looking long wooden house of one storey, there was a great
fête, there was the scraping of violins, and the droning of a double bass,
and the squeaky tooting of a flute playing a very gay quadrille tune. Under
the windows stood an audience, mainly of women in wadded pelisses with
kerchiefs on their heads; they were straining every effort to see something
through a crack in the shutters. Evidently there was a gay party within.
The sound of the thud of dancing feet reached the other side of the street.
Ivan Ilyitch saw a policeman standing not far off, and went up to him.

"Whose house is that, brother?" he asked, flinging his expensive fur coat
open, just far enough to allow the policeman to see the imposing decoration
on his breast.

"It belongs to the registration clerk Pseldonimov," answered the
policeman, drawing himself up instantly, discerning the decoration.

"Pseldonimov? Bah! Pseldonimov! What is he up to? Getting married?"

"Yes, your Honour, to a daughter of a titular councillor, Mlekopitaev, a
titular councillor ... used to serve in the municipal department. That
house goes with the bride."

"So that now the house is Pseldonimov's and not Mlekopitaev's?"

"Yes, Pseldonimov's, your Honour. It was Mlekopitaev's, but now it is
Pseldonimov's."

"H'm! I am asking you, my man, because I am his chief. I am a general in
the same office in which Pseldonimov serves."

"Just so, your Excellency."

The policeman drew himself up more stiffly than ever, while Ivan Ilyitch
seemed to ponder. He stood still and meditated....

Yes, Pseldonimov really was in his department and in his own office; he
remembered that. He was a little clerk with a salary of ten roubles a
month. As Mr. Pralinsky had received his department very lately he might
not have remembered precisely all his subordinates, but Pseldonimov he
remembered just because of his surname. It had caught his eye from the very
first, so that at the time he had had the curiosity to look with special
attention at the possessor of such a surname. He remembered now a very
young man with a long hooked nose, with tufts of flaxen hair, lean and
ill-nourished, in an impossible uniform, and with unmentionables so
impossible as to be actually unseemly; he remembered how the thought had
flashed through his mind at the time: shouldn't he give the poor fellow ten
roubles for Christmas, to spend on his wardrobe? But as the poor fellow's
face was too austere, and his expression extremely unprepossessing, even
exciting repulsion, the good-natured idea somehow faded away of itself, so
Pseldonimov did not get his tip. He had been the more surprised when this
same Pseldonimov had not more than a week before asked for leave to be
married. Ivan Ilyitch remembered that he had somehow not had time to go
into the matter, so that the matter of the marriage had been settled
offhand, in haste. But yet he did remember exactly that Pseldonimov was
receiving a wooden house and four hundred roubles in cash as dowry with his
bride. The circumstance had surprised him at the time; he remembered that
he had made a slight jest over the juxtaposition of the names Pseldonimov
and Mlekopitaev. He remembered all that clearly.

He recalled it, and grew more and more pensive. It is well known that whole
trains of thought sometimes pass through our brains instantaneously as
though they were sensations without being translated into human speech,
still less into literary language. But we will try to translate these
sensations of our hero's, and present to the reader at least the kernel of
them, so to say, what was most essential and nearest to reality in them.
For many of our sensations when translated into ordinary language seem
absolutely unreal. That is why they never find expression, though every one
has them. Of course Ivan Ilyitch's sensations and thoughts were a little
incoherent. But you know the reason.

"Why," flashed through his mind, "here we all talk and talk, but when it
comes to action--it all ends in nothing. Here, for instance, take this
Pseldonimov: he has just come from his wedding full of hope and excitement,
looking forward to his wedding feast.... This is one of the most blissful
days of his life.... Now he is busy with his guests, is giving a banquet, a
modest one, poor, but gay and full of genuine gladness.... What if he knew
that at this very moment I, I, his superior, his chief, am standing by his
house listening to the music? Yes, really how would he feel? No, what would
he feel if I suddenly walked in? H'm!... Of course at first he would be
frightened, he would be dumb with embarrassment.... I should be in his way,
and perhaps should upset everything. Yes, that would be so if any other
general went in, but not I.... That's a fact, any one else, but not I....

"Yes, Stepan Nikiforovitch! You did not understand me just now, but here is
an example ready for you.

"Yes, we all make an outcry about acting humanely, but we are not capable
of heroism, of fine actions.

"What sort of heroism? This sort. Consider: in the existing relations of
the various members of society, for me, for me, after midnight to go in to
the wedding of my subordinate, a registration clerk, at ten roubles the
month--why, it would mean embarrassment, a revolution, the last days of
Pompeii, a nonsensical folly. No one would understand it. Stepan
Nikiforovitch would die before he understood it. Why, he said we should
break down. Yes, but that's you old people, inert, paralytic people; but I
shan't break down, I will transform the last day of Pompeii to a day of the
utmost sweetness for my subordinate, and a wild action to an action normal,
patriarchal, lofty and moral. How? Like this. Kindly listen....

"Here ... I go in, suppose; they are amazed, leave off dancing, look wildly
at me, draw back. Quite so, but at once I speak out: I go straight up to
the frightened Pseldonimov, and with a most cordial, affable smile, in the
simplest words, I say: 'This is how it is, I have been at his Excellency
Stepan Nikiforovitch's. I expect you know, close here in the
neighbourhood....' Well, then, lightly, in a laughing way, I shall tell him
of my adventure with Trifon. From Trifon I shall pass on to saying how I
walked here on foot.... 'Well, I heard music, I inquired of a policeman,
and learned, brother, that it was your wedding. Let me go in, I thought, to
my subordinate's; let me see how my clerks enjoy themselves and ...
celebrate their wedding. I suppose you won't turn me out?' Turn me out!
What a word for a subordinate! How the devil could he dream of turning me
out! I fancy that he would be half crazy, that he would rush headlong to
seat me in an arm-chair, would be trembling with delight, would hardly know
what he was doing for the first minute!

"Why, what can be simpler, more elegant than such an action? Why did I go
in? That's another question! That is, so to say, the moral aspect of the
question. That's the pith.

"H'm, what was I thinking about, yes!

"Well, of course they will make me sit down with the most important guest,
some titular councillor or a relation who's a retired captain with a red
nose. Gogol describes these eccentrics so capitally. Well, I shall make
acquaintance, of course, with the bride, I shall compliment her, I shall
encourage the guests. I shall beg them not to stand on ceremony. To enjoy
themselves, to go on dancing. I shall make jokes, I shall laugh; in fact, I
shall be affable and charming. I am always affable and charming when I am
pleased with myself.... H'm ... the point is that I believe I am still a
little, well, not drunk exactly, but ...

"Of course, as a gentleman I shall be quite on an equality with them,
and shall not expect any especial marks of.... But morally, morally,
it is a different matter; they will understand and appreciate it....
My actions will evoke their nobler feelings.... Well, I shall stay for
half an hour ... even for an hour; I shall leave, of course, before
supper; but they will be bustling about, baking and roasting, they
will be making low bows, but I will only drink a glass, congratulate
them and refuse supper. I shall say--'business.' And as soon as I
pronounce the word 'business,' all of them will at once have sternly
respectful faces. By that I shall delicately remind them that there is
a difference between them and me. The earth and the sky. It is not
that I want to impress that on them, but it must be done ... it's
even essential in a moral sense, when all is said and done. I shall
smile at once, however, I shall even laugh, and then they will all
pluck up courage again.... I shall jest a little again with the bride;
h'm!... I may even hint that I shall come again in just nine months to
stand godfather, he-he! And she will be sure to be brought to bed by
then. They multiply, you know, like rabbits. And they will all roar
with laughter and the bride will blush; I shall kiss her feelingly on
the forehead, even give her my blessing ... and next day my exploit
will be known at the office. Next day I shall be stern again, next day
I shall be exacting again, even implacable, but they will all know
what I am like. They will know my heart, they will know my essential
nature: 'He is stern as chief, but as a man he is an angel!' And I
shall have conquered them; I shall have captured them by one little
act which would never have entered your head; they would be mine; I
should be their father, they would be my children.... Come now, your
Excellency Stepan Nikiforovitch, go and do likewise....

"But do you know, do you understand, that Pseldonimov will tell his
children how the General himself feasted and even drank at his wedding! Why
you know those children would tell their children, and those would tell
their grandchildren as a most sacred story that a grand gentleman, a
statesman (and I shall be all that by then) did them the honour, and so on,
and so on. Why, I am morally elevating the humiliated, I restore him to
himself.... Why, he gets a salary of ten roubles a month!... If I repeat
this five or ten times, or something of the sort, I shall gain popularity
all over the place.... My name will be printed on the hearts of all, and
the devil only knows what will come of that popularity!..."

These, or something like these, were Ivan Ilyitch's reflections, (a man
says all sorts of things sometimes to himself, gentlemen, especially when
he is in rather an eccentric condition). All these meditations passed
through his mind in something like half a minute, and of course he might
have confined himself to these dreams and, after mentally putting Stepan
Nikiforovitch to shame, have gone very peacefully home and to bed. And he
would have done well. But the trouble of it was that the moment was an
eccentric one.

As ill-luck would have it, at that very instant the self-satisfied faces of
Stepan Nikiforovitch and Semyon Ivanovitch suddenly rose before his heated
imagination.

"We shall break down!" repeated Stepan Nikiforovitch, smiling disdainfully.

"He-he-he," Semyon Ivanovitch seconded him with his nastiest smile.

"Well, we'll see whether we do break down!" Ivan Ilyitch said resolutely,
with a rush of heat to his face.

He stepped down from the pavement and with resolute steps went straight
across the street towards the house of his registration clerk Pseldonimov.

       *       *       *       *       *

His star carried him away. He walked confidently in at the open gate and
contemptuously thrust aside with his foot the shaggy, husky little
sheep-dog who flew at his legs with a hoarse bark, more as a matter of form
than with any real intention. Along a wooden plank he went to the covered
porch which led like a sentry box to the yard, and by three decaying wooden
steps he went up to the tiny entry. Here, though a tallow candle or
something in the way of a night-light was burning somewhere in a corner, it
did not prevent Ivan Ilyitch from putting his left foot just as it was, in
its galosh, into a galantine which had been stood out there to cool. Ivan
Ilyitch bent down, and looking with curiosity, he saw that there were two
other dishes of some sort of jelly and also two shapes apparently of
blancmange. The squashed galantine embarrassed him, and for one brief
instant the thought flashed through his mind, whether he should not slink
away at once. But he considered this too low. Reflecting that no one would
have seen him, and that they would never think he had done it, he hurriedly
wiped his galosh to conceal all traces, fumbled for the felt-covered door,
opened it and found himself in a very little ante-room. Half of it was
literally piled up with greatcoats, wadded jackets, cloaks, capes, scarves
and galoshes. In the other half the musicians had been installed; two
violins, a flute, and a double bass, a band of four, picked up, of course,
in the street. They were sitting at an unpainted wooden table, lighted by a
single tallow candle, and with the utmost vigour were sawing out the last
figure of the quadrille. From the open door into the drawing-room one could
see the dancers in the midst of dust, tobacco smoke and fumes. There was a
frenzy of gaiety. There were sounds of laughter, shouts and shrieks from
the ladies. The gentlemen stamped like a squadron of horses. Above all the
Bedlam there rang out words of command from the leader of the dance,
probably an extremely free and easy, and even unbuttoned gentleman:
"Gentlemen advance, ladies' chain, set to partners!" and so on, and so on.
Ivan Ilyitch in some excitement cast off his coat and galoshes, and with
his cap in his hand went into the room. He was no longer reflecting,
however.

For the first minute nobody noticed him; all were absorbed in dancing the
quadrille to the end. Ivan Ilyitch stood as though entranced, and could
make out nothing definite in the chaos. He caught glimpses of ladies'
dresses, of gentlemen with cigarettes between their teeth. He caught a
glimpse of a lady's pale blue scarf which flicked him on the nose. After
the wearer a medical student, with his hair blown in all directions on his
head, pranced by in wild delight and jostled violently against him on the
way. He caught a glimpse, too, of an officer of some description, who
looked half a mile high. Some one in an unnaturally shrill voice shouted,
"O-o-oh, Pseldonimov!" as the speaker flew by stamping. It was sticky under
Ivan Ilyitch's feet; evidently the floor had been waxed. In the room, which
was a very small one, there were about thirty people.

But a minute later the quadrille was over, and almost at once the very
thing Ivan Ilyitch had pictured when he was dreaming on the pavement took
place.

A stifled murmur, a strange whisper passed over the whole company,
including the dancers, who had not yet had time to take breath and wipe
their perspiring faces. All eyes, all faces began quickly turning towards
the newly arrived guest. Then they all seemed to draw back a little and
beat a retreat. Those who had not noticed him were pulled by their coats or
dresses and informed. They looked round and at once beat a retreat with the
others. Ivan Ilyitch was still standing at the door without moving a step
forward, and between him and the company there stretched an ever widening
empty space of floor strewn with countless sweet-meat wrappings, bits of
paper and cigarette ends. All at once a young man in a uniform, with a
shock of flaxen hair and a hooked nose, stepped timidly out into that empty
space. He moved forward, hunched up, and looked at the unexpected visitor
exactly with the expression with which a dog looks at its master when the
latter has called him up and is going to kick him.

"Good evening, Pseldonimov, do you know me?" said Ivan Ilyitch, and felt at
the same minute that he had said this very awkwardly; he felt, too, that he
was perhaps doing something horribly stupid at that moment.

"You-our Ex-cel-len-cy!" muttered Pseldonimov.

"To be sure.... I have called in to see you quite by chance, my friend, as
you can probably imagine...."

But evidently Pseldonimov could imagine nothing. He stood with staring eyes
in the utmost perplexity.

"You won't turn me out, I suppose.... Pleased or not, you must make a
visitor welcome...." Ivan Ilyitch went on, feeling that he was confused to
a point of unseemly feebleness; that he was trying to smile and was utterly
unable; that the humorous reference to Stepan Nikiforovitch and Trifon was
becoming more and more impossible. But as ill luck would have it,
Pseldonimov did not recover from his stupefaction, and still gazed at him
with a perfectly idiotic air. Ivan Ilyitch winced, he felt that in another
minute something incredibly foolish would happen.

"I am not in the way, am I?... I'll go away," he faintly articulated, and
there was a tremor at the right corner of his mouth.

But Pseldonimov had recovered himself.

"Good heavens, your Excellency ... the honour...." he muttered, bowing
hurriedly. "Graciously sit down, your Excellency...." And recovering
himself still further, he motioned him with both hands to a sofa before
which a table had been moved away to make room for the dancing.

Ivan Ilyitch felt relieved and sank on the sofa; at once some one flew to
move the table up to him. He took a cursory look round and saw that he was
the only person sitting down, all the others were standing, even the
ladies. A bad sign. But it was not yet time to reassure and encourage them.
The company still held back, while before him, bending double, stood
Pseldonimov, utterly alone, still completely at a loss and very far from
smiling. It was horrid; in short, our hero endured such misery at that
moment that his Haroun al-Raschid-like descent upon his subordinates for
the sake of principle might well have been reckoned an heroic action. But
suddenly a little figure made its appearance beside Pseldonimov, and began
bowing. To his inexpressible pleasure and even happiness, Ivan Ilyitch at
once recognised him as the head clerk of his office, Akim Petrovitch
Zubikov, and though, of course, he was not acquainted with him, he knew him
to be a businesslike and exemplary clerk. He got up at once and held out
his hand to Akim Petrovitch--his whole hand, not two fingers. The latter
took it in both of his with the deepest respect. The general was
triumphant, the situation was saved.

And now indeed Pseldonimov was no longer, so to say, the second person, but
the third. It was possible to address his remarks to the head clerk in his
necessity, taking him for an acquaintance and even an intimate one, and
Pseldonimov meanwhile could only be silent and be in a tremor of reverence.
So that the proprieties were observed. And some explanation was essential,
Ivan Ilyitch felt that; he saw that all the guests were expecting
something, that the whole household was gathered together in the doorway,
almost creeping, climbing over one another in their anxiety to see and hear
him. What was horrid was that the head clerk in his foolishness remained
standing.

"Why are you standing?" said Ivan Ilyitch, awkwardly motioning him to a
seat on the sofa beside him.

"Oh, don't trouble.... I'll sit here." And Akim Petrovitch hurriedly sat
down on a chair, almost as it was being put for him by Pseldonimov, who
remained obstinately standing.

"Can you imagine what happened," addressing himself exclusively to Akim
Petrovitch in a rather quavering, though free and easy voice. He even
drawled out his words, with special emphasis on some syllables, pronounced
the vowel _ah_ like _eh_; in short, felt and was conscious that he was
being affected but could not control himself: some external force was at
work. He was painfully conscious of many things at that moment.

"Can you imagine, I have only just come from Stepan Nikiforovitch
Nikiforov's, you have heard of him perhaps, the privy councillor. You
know ... on that special committee...."

Akim Petrovitch bent his whole person forward respectfully: as much as to
say, "Of course we have heard of him."

"He is your neighbor now," Ivan Ilyitch went on, for one instant for the
sake of ease and good manners addressing Pseldonimov, but he quickly turned
away again, on seeing from the latter's eyes that it made absolutely no
difference to him.

"The old fellow, as you know, has been dreaming all his life of buying
himself a house.... Well, and he has bought it. And a very pretty house
too. Yes.... And to-day was his birthday and he had never celebrated it
before, he used even to keep it secret from us, he was too stingy to keep
it, he-he. But now he is so delighted over his new house, that he invited
Semyon Ivanovitch Shipulenko and me, you know."

Akim Petrovitch bent forward again. He bent forward zealously. Ivan Ilyitch
felt somewhat comforted. It had struck him, indeed, that the head clerk
possibly was guessing that he was an indispensable _point d'appui_ for his
Excellency at that moment. That would have been more horrid than anything.

"So we sat together, the three of us, he gave us champagne, we talked about
problems ... even dis-pu-ted.... He-he!"

Akim Petrovitch raised his eyebrows respectfully.

"Only that is not the point. When I take leave of him at last--he is a
punctual old fellow, goes to bed early, you know, in his old age--I go
out.... My Trifon is nowhere to be seen! I am anxious, I make inquiries.
'What has Trifon done with the carriage?' It comes out that hoping I should
stay on, he had gone off to the wedding of some friend of his, or sister
maybe.... Goodness only knows. Somewhere here on the Petersburg Side. And
took the carriage with him while he was about it."

Again for the sake of good manners the general glanced in the direction of
Pseldonimov. The latter promptly gave a wriggle, but not at all the sort
of wriggle the general would have liked. "He has no sympathy, no heart,"
flashed through his brain.

"You don't say so!" said Akim Petrovitch, greatly impressed. A faint murmur
of surprise ran through all the crowd.

"Can you fancy my position...." (Ivan Ilyitch glanced at them all.) "There
was nothing for it, I set off on foot, I thought I would trudge to the
Great Prospect, and there find some cabby ... he-he!"

"He-he-he!" Akim Petrovitch echoed. Again a murmur, but this time on a more
cheerful note, passed through the crowd. At that moment the chimney of a
lamp on the wall broke with a crash. Some one rushed zealously to see to
it. Pseldonimov started and looked sternly at the lamp, but the general
took no notice of it, and all was serene again.

"I walked ... and the night was so lovely, so still. All at once I heard a
band, stamping, dancing. I inquired of a policeman; it is Pseldonimov's
wedding. Why, you are giving a ball to all Petersburg Side, my friend.
Ha-ha." He turned to Pseldonimov again.

"He-he-he! To be sure," Akim Petrovitch responded. There was a stir among
the guests again, but what was most foolish was that Pseldonimov, though he
bowed, did not even now smile, but seemed as though he were made of wood.
"Is he a fool or what?" thought Ivan Ilyitch. "He ought to have smiled at
that point, the ass, and everything would have run easily." There was a
fury of impatience in his heart.

"I thought I would go in to see my clerk. He won't turn me out I expect ...
pleased or not, one must welcome a guest. You must please excuse me, my
dear fellow. If I am in the way, I will go ... I only came in to have a
look...."

But little by little a general stir was beginning.

Akim Petrovitch looked at him with a mawkishly sweet expression as though
to say, "How could your Excellency be in the way?" all the guests stirred
and began to display the first symptoms of being at their ease. Almost all
the ladies sat down. A good sign and a reassuring one. The boldest spirits
among them fanned themselves with their handkerchiefs. One of them in a
shabby velvet dress said something with intentional loudness. The officer
addressed by her would have liked to answer her as loudly, but seeing that
they were the only ones speaking aloud, he subsided. The men, for the most
part government clerks, with two or three students among them, looked at
one another as though egging each other on to unbend, cleared their
throats, and began to move a few steps in different directions. No one,
however, was particularly timid, but they were all restive, and almost all
of them looked with a hostile expression at the personage who had burst in
upon them, to destroy their gaiety. The officer, ashamed of his cowardice,
began to edge up to the table.

"But I say, my friend, allow me to ask you your name," Ivan Ilyitch asked
Pseldonimov.

"Porfiry Petrovitch, your Excellency," answered the latter, with staring
eyes as though on parade.

"Introduce me, Porfiry Petrovitch, to your bride.... Take me to her ...
I...."

And he showed signs of a desire to get up. But Pseldonimov ran full speed
to the drawing-room. The bride, however, was standing close by at the door,
but as soon as she heard herself mentioned, she hid. A minute later
Pseldonimov led her up by the hand. The guests all moved aside to make way
for them. Ivan Ilyitch got up solemnly and addressed himself to her with a
most affable smile.

"Very, very much pleased to make your acquaintance," he pronounced with a
most aristocratic half-bow, "especially on such a day...."

He gave a meaning smile. There was an agreeable flutter among the ladies.

"_Charmé_," the lady in the velvet dress pronounced, almost aloud.

The bride was a match for Pseldonimov. She was a thin little lady not more
than seventeen, pale, with a very small face and a sharp little nose. Her
quick, active little eyes were not at all embarrassed; on the contrary,
they looked at him steadily and even with a shade of resentment. Evidently
Pseldonimov was marrying her for her beauty. She was dressed in a white
muslin dress over a pink slip. Her neck was thin, and she had a figure like
a chicken's with the bones all sticking out. She was not equal to making
any response to the general's affability.

"But she is very pretty," he went on, in an undertone, as though addressing
Pseldonimov only, though intentionally speaking so that the bride could
hear.

But on this occasion, too, Pseldonimov again answered absolutely nothing,
and did not even wriggle. Ivan Ilyitch fancied that there was something
cold, suppressed in his eyes, as though he had something peculiarly
malignant in his mind. And yet he had at all costs to wring some
sensibility out of him. Why, that was the object of his coming.

"They are a couple, though!" he thought.

And he turned again to the bride, who had seated herself beside him on the
sofa, but in answer to his two or three questions he got nothing but "yes"
or "no," and hardly that.

"If only she had been overcome with confusion," he thought to himself,
"then I should have begun to banter her. But as it is, my position is
impossible."

And as ill-luck would have it, Akim Petrovitch, too, was mute; though this
was only due to his foolishness, it was still unpardonable.

"My friends! Haven't I perhaps interfered with your enjoyment?" he said,
addressing the whole company.

He felt that the very palms of his hands were perspiring.

"No ... don't trouble, your Excellency; we are beginning directly, but
now ... we are getting cool," answered the officer.

The bride looked at him with pleasure; the officer was not old, and wore
the uniform of some branch of the service. Pseldonimov was still standing
in the same place, bending forward, and it seemed as though his hooked nose
stood out further than ever. He looked and listened like a footman standing
with the greatcoat on his arm, waiting for the end of his master's farewell
conversation. Ivan Ilyitch made this comparison himself. He was losing his
head; he felt that he was in an awkward position, that the ground was
giving way under his feet, that he had got in somewhere and could not find
his way out, as though he were in the dark.

       *       *       *       *       *

Suddenly the guests all moved aside, and a short, thick-set, middle-aged
woman made her appearance, dressed plainly though she was in her best, with
a big shawl on her shoulders, pinned at her throat, and on her head a cap
to which she was evidently unaccustomed. In her hands she carried a small
round tray on which stood a full but uncorked bottle of champagne and two
glasses, neither more nor less. Evidently the bottle was intended for only
two guests.

The middle-aged lady approached the general.

"Don't look down on us, your Excellency," she said, bowing. "Since you have
deigned to do my son the honour of coming to his wedding, we beg you
graciously to drink to the health of the young people. Do not disdain us;
do us the honour."

Ivan Ilyitch clutched at her as though she were his salvation. She was by
no means an old woman--forty-five or forty-six, not more; but she had such
a good-natured, rosy-cheeked, such a round and candid Russian face, she
smiled so good-humouredly, bowed so simply, that Ivan Ilyitch was almost
comforted and began to hope again.

"So you are the mo-other of your so-on?" he said, getting up from the sofa.

"Yes, my mother, your Excellency," mumbled Pseldonimov, craning his long
neck and thrusting forward his long nose again.

"Ah! I am delighted--de-ligh-ted to make your acquaintance."

"Do not refuse us, your Excellency."

"With the greatest pleasure."

The tray was put down. Pseldonimov dashed forward to pour out the wine.
Ivan Ilyitch, still standing, took the glass.

"I am particularly, particularly glad on this occasion, that I can ..." he
began, "that I can ... testify before all of you.... In short, as your
chief ... I wish you, madam" (he turned to the bride), "and you, friend
Porfiry, I wish you the fullest, completest happiness for many long years."

And he positively drained the glass with feeling, the seventh he had drunk
that evening. Pseldonimov looked at him gravely and even sullenly. The
general was beginning to feel an agonising hatred of him.

"And that scarecrow" (he looked at the officer) "keeps obtruding himself.
He might at least have shouted 'hurrah!' and it would have gone off, it
would have gone off...."

"And you too, Akim Petrovitch, drink a glass to their health," added the
mother, addressing the head clerk. "You are his superior, he is under you.
Look after my boy, I beg you as a mother. And don't forget us in the
future, our good, kind friend, Akim Petrovitch."

"How nice these old Russian women are," thought Ivan Ilyitch. "She has
livened us all up. I have always loved the democracy...."

At that moment another tray was brought to the table; it was brought in by
a maid wearing a crackling cotton dress that had never been washed, and a
crinoline. She could hardly grasp the tray in both hands, it was so big. On
it there were numbers of plates of apples, sweets, fruit meringues and
fruit cheeses, walnuts and so on, and so on. The tray had been till then in
the drawing-room for the delectation of all the guests, and especially the
ladies. But now it was brought to the general alone.

"Do not disdain our humble fare, your Excellency. What we have we are
pleased to offer," the old lady repeated, bowing.

"Delighted!" said Ivan Ilyitch, and with real pleasure took a walnut and
cracked it between his fingers. He had made up his mind to win popularity
at all costs.

Meantime the bride suddenly giggled.

"What is it?" asked Ivan Ilyitch with a smile, encouraged by this sign of
life.

"Ivan Kostenkinitch, here, makes me laugh," she answered, looking down.

The general distinguished, indeed, a flaxen-headed young man, exceedingly
good-looking, who was sitting on a chair at the other end of the sofa,
whispering something to Madame Pseldonimov. The young man stood up. He was
apparently very young and very shy.

"I was telling the lady about a 'dream book,' your Excellency," he muttered
as though apologising.

"About what sort of 'dream book'?" asked Ivan Ilyitch condescendingly.

"There is a new 'dream book,' a literary one. I was telling the lady that
to dream of Mr. Panaev means spilling coffee on one's shirt front."

"What innocence!" thought Ivan Ilyitch, with positive annoyance.

Though the young man flushed very red as he said it, he was incredibly
delighted that he had said this about Mr. Panaev.

"To be sure, I have heard of it...." responded his Excellency.

"No, there is something better than that," said a voice quite close to Ivan
Ilyitch. "There is a new encyclopædia being published, and they say Mr.
Kraevsky will write articles... and satirical literature."

This was said by a young man who was by no means embarrassed, but rather
free and easy. He was wearing gloves and a white waistcoat, and carried a
hat in his hand. He did not dance, and looked condescending, for he was on
the staff of a satirical paper called _The Firebrand_, and gave himself
airs accordingly. He had come casually to the wedding, invited as an
honoured guest of the Pseldonimovs', with whom he was on intimate terms and
with whom only a year before he had lived in very poor lodgings, kept by a
German woman. He drank vodka, however, and for that purpose had more than
once withdrawn to a snug little back room to which all the guests knew
their way. The general disliked him extremely.

"And the reason that's funny," broke in joyfully the flaxen-headed young
man, who had talked of the shirt front and at whom the young man on the
comic paper looked with hatred in consequence, "it's funny, your
Excellency, because it is supposed by the writer that Mr. Kraevsky does not
know how to spell, and thinks that 'satirical' ought to be written with a
'y' instead of an 'i.'"

But the poor young man scarcely finished his sentence; he could see from
his eyes that the general knew all this long ago, for the general himself
looked embarrassed, and evidently because he knew it. The young man seemed
inconceivably ashamed. He succeeded in effacing himself completely, and
remained very melancholy all the rest of the evening.

But to make up for that the young man on the staff of the _Firebrand_ came
up nearer, and seemed to be intending to sit down somewhere close by. Such
free and easy manners struck Ivan Ilyitch as rather shocking.

"Tell me, please, Porfiry," he began, in order to say something, "why--I
have always wanted to ask you about it in person--why you are called
Pseldonimov instead of Pseudonimov? Your name surely must be Pseudonimov."

"I cannot inform you exactly, your Excellency," said Pseldonimov.

"It must have been that when his father went into the service they made a
mistake in his papers, so that he has remained now Pseldonimov," put in
Akim Petrovitch. "That does happen."

"Un-doubted-ly," the general said with warmth, "un-doubted-ly; for only
think, Pseudonimov comes from the literary word pseudonym, while
Pseldonimov means nothing."

"Due to foolishness," added Akim Petrovitch.

"You mean what is due to foolishness?"

"The Russian common people in their foolishness often alter letters, and
sometimes pronounce them in their own way. For instance, they say nevalid
instead of invalid."

"Oh, yes, nevalid, he-he-he...."

"Mumber, too, they say, your Excellency," boomed out the tall officer, who
had long been itching to distinguish himself in some way.

"What do you mean by mumber?"

"Mumber instead of number, your Excellency."

"Oh, yes, mumber ... instead of number.... To be sure, to be sure....
He-he-he!" Ivan Ilyitch had to do a chuckle for the benefit of the officer
too.

The officer straightened his tie.

"Another thing they say is nigh by," the young man on the comic paper put
in. But his Excellency tried not to hear this. His chuckles were not at
everybody's disposal.

"Nigh by, instead of near," the young man on the comic paper persisted, in
evident irritation.

Ivan Ilyitch looked at him sternly.

"Come, why persist?" Pseldonimov whispered to him.

"Why, I was talking. Mayn't one speak?" the latter protested in a whisper;
but he said no more and with secret fury walked out of the room.

He made his way straight to the attractive little back room where, for the
benefit of the dancing gentlemen, vodka of two sorts, salt fish, caviare
into slices and a bottle of very strong sherry of Russian make had been set
early in the evening on a little table, covered with a Yaroslav cloth. With
anger in his heart he was pouring himself out a glass of vodka, when
suddenly the medical student with the dishevelled locks, the foremost
dancer and cutter of capers at Pseldonimov's ball, rushed in. He fell on
the decanter with greedy haste.

"They are just going to begin!" he said rapidly, helping himself. "Come and
look, I am going to dance a solo on my head; after supper I shall risk the
fish dance. It is just the thing for the wedding. So to speak, a friendly
hint to Pseldonimov. She's a jolly creature that Kleopatra Semyonovna, you
can venture on anything you like with her."

"He's a reactionary," said the young man on the comic paper gloomily, as he
tossed off his vodka.

"Who is a reactionary?"

"Why, the personage before whom they set those sweet-meats. He's a
reactionary, I tell you."

"What nonsense!" muttered the student, and he rushed out of the room,
hearing the opening bars of the quadrille.

Left alone, the young man on the comic paper poured himself out another
glass to give himself more assurance and independence; he drank and ate a
snack of something, and never had the actual civil councillor Ivan Ilyitch
made for himself a bitterer foe more implacably bent on revenge than was
the young man on the staff of the _Firebrand_ whom he had so slighted,
especially after the latter had drunk two glasses of vodka. Alas! Ivan
Ilyitch suspected nothing of the sort. He did not suspect another
circumstance of prime importance either, which had an influence on the
mutual relations of the guests and his Excellency. The fact was that though
he had given a proper and even detailed explanation of his presence at his
clerk's wedding, this explanation did not really satisfy any one, and the
visitors were still embarrassed. But suddenly everything was transformed as
though by magic, all were reassured and ready to enjoy themselves, to
laugh, to shriek; to dance, exactly as though the unexpected visitor were
not in the room. The cause of it was a rumour, a whisper, a report which
spread in some unknown way that the visitor was not quite ... it
seemed--was, in fact, "a little top-heavy." And though this seemed at first
a horrible calumny, it began by degrees to appear to be justified; suddenly
everything became clear. What was more, they felt all at once
extraordinarily free. And it was just at this moment that the quadrille for
which the medical student was in such haste, the last before supper, began.

And just as Ivan Ilyitch meant to address the bride again, intending to
provoke her with some innuendo, the tall officer suddenly dashed up to her
and with a flourish dropped on one knee before her. She immediately jumped
up from the sofa, and whisked off with him to take her place in the
quadrille. The officer did not even apologise, and she did not even glance
at the general as she went away; she seemed, in fact, relieved to escape.

"After all she has a right to be,' thought Ivan Ilyitch, 'and of course
they don't know how to behave.' "Hm! Don't you stand on ceremony, friend
Porfiry," he said, addressing Pseldonimov. "Perhaps you have ...
arrangements to make ... or something ... please don't put yourself out."
'Why does he keep guard over me?'" he thought to himself.

Pseldonimov, with his long neck and his eyes fixed intently upon him,
began to be insufferable. In fact, all this was not the thing, not the
thing at all, but Ivan Ilyitch was still far from admitting this.

       *       *       *       *       *

The quadrille began.

"Will you allow me, your Excellency?" asked Akim Petrovitch, holding the
bottle respectfully in his hands and preparing to pour from it into his
Excellency's glass.

"I ... I really don't know, whether...."

But Akim Petrovitch, with reverent and radiant face, was already filling
the glass. After filling the glass, he proceeded, writhing and wriggling,
as it were stealthily, as it were furtively, to pour himself out some, with
this difference, that he did not fill his own glass to within a finger
length of the top, and this seemed somehow more respectful. He was like a
woman in travail as he sat beside his chief. What could he talk about,
indeed? Yet to entertain his Excellency was an absolute duty since he had
the honour of keeping him company. The champagne served as a resource, and
his Excellency, too, was pleased that he had filled his glass--not for the
sake of the champagne, for it was warm and perfectly abominable, but just
morally pleased.

"The old chap would like to have a drink himself," thought Ivan Ilyitch,
"but he doesn't venture till I do. I mustn't prevent him. And indeed it
would be absurd for the bottle to stand between as untouched."

He took a sip, anyway it seemed better than sitting doing nothing.

"I am here," he said, with pauses and emphasis, "I am here, you know, so to
speak, accidentally, and, of course, it may be ... that some people would
consider ... it unseemly for me to be at such ... a gathering."

Akim Petrovitch said nothing, but listened with timid curiosity.

"But I hope you will understand, with what object I have come.... I
haven't really come simply to drink wine ... he-he!"

Akim Petrovitch tried to chuckle, following the example of his Excellency,
but again he could not get it out, and again he made absolutely no
consolatory answer.

"I am here ... in order, so to speak, to encourage ... to show, so to
speak, a moral aim," Ivan Ilyitch continued, feeling vexed at Akim
Petrovitch's stupidity, but he suddenly subsided into silence himself. He
saw that poor Akim Petrovitch had dropped his eyes as though he were in
fault. The general in some confusion made haste to take another sip from
his glass, and Akim Petrovitch clutched at the bottle as though it were his
only hope of salvation and filled the glass again.

"You haven't many resources," thought Ivan Ilyitch, looking sternly at poor
Akim Petrovitch. The latter, feeling that stern general-like eye upon him,
made up his mind to remain silent for good and not to raise his eyes. So
they sat beside each other for a couple of minutes--two sickly minutes for
Akim Petrovitch.

A couple of words about Akim Petrovitch. He was a man of the old school, as
meek as a hen, reared from infancy to obsequious servility, and at the same
time a good-natured and even honourable man. He was a Petersburg Russian;
that is, his father and his father's father were born, grew up and served
in Petersburg and had never once left Petersburg. That is quite a special
type of Russian. They have hardly any idea of Russia, though that does not
trouble them at all. Their whole interest is confined to Petersburg and
chiefly the place in which they serve. All their thoughts are concentrated
on preference for farthing points, on the shop, and their month's salary.
They don't know a single Russian custom, a single Russian song except
"Lutchinushka," and that only because it is played on the barrel organs.
However, there are two fundamental and invariable signs by which you can
at once distinguish a Petersburg Russian from a real Russian. The first
sign is the fact that Petersburg Russians, all without exception, speak of
the newspaper as the _Academic News_ and never call it the _Petersburg
News_. The second and equally trustworthy sign is that Petersburg Russians
never make use of the word "breakfast," but always call it "Frühstück" with
especial emphasis on the first syllable. By these radical and
distinguishing signs you can tell them apart; in short, this is a humble
type which has been formed during the last thirty-five years. Akim
Petrovitch, however, was by no means a fool. If the general had asked him a
question about anything in his own province he would have answered and kept
up a conversation; as it was, it was unseemly for a subordinate even to
answer such questions as these, though Akim Petrovitch was dying from
curiosity to know something more detailed about his Excellency's real
intentions.

And meanwhile Ivan Ilyitch sank more and more into meditation and a sort of
whirl of ideas; in his absorption he sipped his glass every half-minute.
Akim Petrovitch at once zealously filled it up. Both were silent. Ivan
Ilyitch began looking at the dances, and immediately something attracted
his attention. One circumstance even surprised him....

The dances were certainly lively. Here people danced in the simplicity of
their hearts to amuse themselves and even to romp wildly. Among the dancers
few were really skilful, but the unskilled stamped so vigorously that they
might have been taken for agile ones. The officer was among the foremost;
he particularly liked the figures in which he was left alone, to perform a
solo. Then he performed the most marvellous capers. For instance, standing
upright as a post, he would suddenly bend over to one side, so that one
expected him to fall over; but with the next step he would suddenly bend
over in the opposite direction at the same acute angle to the floor. He
kept the most serious face and danced in the full conviction that every
one was watching him. Another gentleman, who had had rather more than he
could carry before the quadrille, dropped asleep beside his partner so that
his partner had to dance alone. The young registration clerk, who had
danced with the lady in the blue scarf through all the figures and through
all the five quadrilles which they had danced that evening, played the same
prank the whole time: that is, he dropped a little behind his partner,
seized the end of her scarf, and as they crossed over succeeded in
imprinting some twenty kisses on the scarf. His partner sailed along in
front of him, as though she noticed nothing. The medical student really did
dance on his head, and excited frantic enthusiasm, stamping, and shrieks of
delight. In short, the absence of constraint was very marked. Ivan Ilyitch,
whom the wine was beginning to affect, began by smiling, but by degrees a
bitter doubt began to steal into his heart; of course he liked free and
easy manners and unconventionality. He desired, he had even inwardly prayed
for free and easy manners, when they had all held back, but now that
unconventionality had gone beyond all limits. One lady, for instance, the
one in the shabby dark blue velvet dress, bought fourth-hand, in the sixth
figure pinned her dress so as to turn it into--something like trousers.
This was the Kleopatra Semyonovna with whom one could venture to do
anything, as her partner, the medical student, had expressed it. The
medical student defied description: he was simply a Fokin. How was it? They
had held back and now they were so quickly emancipated! One might think it
nothing, but this transformation was somehow strange; it indicated
something. It was as though they had forgotten Ivan Ilyitch's existence. Of
course he was the first to laugh, and even ventured to applaud. Akim
Petrovitch chuckled respectfully in unison, though, indeed, with evident
pleasure and no suspicion that his Excellency was beginning to nourish in
his heart a new gnawing anxiety.

"You dance capitally, young man," Ivan Ilyitch was obliged to say to the
medical student as he walked past him.

The student turned sharply towards him, made a grimace, and bringing his
face close into unseemly proximity to the face of his Excellency, crowed
like a cock at the top of his voice. This was too much. Ivan Ilyitch got up
from the table. In spite of that, a roar of inexpressible laughter
followed, for the crow was an extraordinarily good imitation, and the whole
performance was utterly unexpected. Ivan Ilyitch was still standing in
bewilderment, when suddenly Pseldonimov himself made his appearance, and
with a bow, began begging him to come to supper. His mother followed him.

"Your Excellency," she said, bowing, "do us the honour, do not disdain our
humble fare."

"I ... I really don't know," Ivan Ilyitch was beginning. "I did not come
with that idea ... I ... meant to be going...."

He was, in fact, holding his hat in his hands. What is more, he had at that
very moment taken an inward vow at all costs to depart at once and on no
account whatever to consent to remain, and ... he remained. A minute later
he led the procession to the table. Pseldonimov and his mother walked in
front, clearing the way for him. They made him sit down in the seat of
honour, and again a bottle of champagne, opened but not begun, was set
beside his plate. By way of _hors d'oeuvres_ there were salt herrings and
vodka. He put out his hand, poured out a large glass of vodka and drank it
off. He had never drunk vodka before. He felt as though he were rolling
down a hill, were flying, flying, flying, that he must stop himself, catch
at something, but there was no possibility of it.

His position was certainly becoming more and more eccentric. What is more,
it seemed as though fate were mocking at him. God knows what had happened
to him in the course of an hour or so. When he went in he had, so to say,
opened his arms to embrace all humanity, all his subordinates; and here not
more than an hour had passed and in all his aching heart he felt and knew
that he hated Pseldonimov and was cursing him, his wife and his wedding.
What was more, he saw from his face, from his eyes alone, that Pseldonimov
himself hated him, that he was looking at him with eyes that almost said:
"If only you would take yourself off, curse you! Foisting yourself on us!"
All this he had read for some time in his eyes.

Of course as he sat down to table, Ivan Ilyitch would sooner have had his
hand cut off than have owned, not only aloud, but even to himself, that
this was really so. The moment had not fully arrived yet. There was still a
moral vacillation. But his heart, his heart ... it ached! It was clamouring
for freedom, for air, for rest. Ivan Ilyitch was really too good-natured.

He knew, of course, that he ought long before to have gone away, not merely
to have gone away but to have made his escape. That all this was not the
same, but had turned out utterly different from what he had dreamed of on
the pavement.

"Why did I come? Did I come here to eat and drink?" he asked himself as he
tasted the salt herring. He even had attacks of scepticism. There was at
moments a faint stir of irony in regard to his own fine action at the
bottom of his heart. He actually wondered at times why he had come in.

But how could he go away? To go away like this without having finished the
business properly was impossible. What would people say? They would say
that he was frequenting low company. Indeed it really would amount to that
if he did not end it properly. What would Stepan Nikiforovitch, Semyon
Ivanovitch say (for of course it would be all over the place by to-morrow)?
what would be said in the offices, at the Shembels', at the Shubins'? No,
he must take his departure in such a way that all should understand why he
had come, he must make clear his moral aim.... And meantime the dramatic
moment would not present itself. "They don't even respect me," he went on,
thinking. "What are they laughing at? They are as free and easy as though
they had no feeling.... But I have long suspected that all the younger
generation are without feeling! I must remain at all costs! They have just
been dancing, but now at table they will all be gathered together.... I
will talk about questions, about reforms, about the greatness of Russia....
I can still win their enthusiasm! Yes! Perhaps nothing is yet lost....
Perhaps it is always like this in reality. What should I begin upon with
them to attract them? What plan can I hit upon? I am lost, simply lost....
And what is it they want, what is it they require?... I see they are
laughing together there. Can it be at me, merciful heavens! But what is it
I want ... why is it I am here, why don't I go away, why do I go on
persisting?"... He thought this, and a sort of shame, a deep unbearable
shame, rent his heart more and more intensely.

       *       *       *       *       *

But everything went on in the same way, one thing after another.

Just two minutes after he had sat down to the table one terrible thought
overwhelmed him completely. He suddenly felt that he was horribly drunk,
that is, not as he was before, but hopelessly drunk. The cause of this was
the glass of vodka which he had drunk after the champagne, and which had
immediately produced an effect. He was conscious, he felt in every fibre of
his being that he was growing hopelessly feeble. Of course his assurance
was greatly increased, but consciousness had not deserted him, and it kept
crying out: "It is bad, very bad and, in fact, utterly unseemly!" Of course
his unstable drunken reflections could not rest long on one subject; there
began to be apparent and unmistakably so, even to himself, two opposite
sides. On one side there was swaggering assurance, a desire to conquer, a
disdain of obstacles and a desperate confidence that he would attain his
object. The other side showed itself in the aching of his heart, and a sort
of gnawing in his soul. "What would they say? How would it all end? What
would happen to-morrow, to-morrow, to-morrow?"...

He had felt vaguely before that he had enemies in the company. "No doubt
that was because I was drunk," he thought with agonising doubt. What was
his horror when he actually, by unmistakable signs, convinced himself now
that he really had enemies at the table, and that it was impossible to
doubt of it.

"And why--why?" he wondered.

At the table there were all the thirty guests, of whom several were quite
tipsy. Others were behaving with a careless and sinister independence,
shouting and talking at the top of their voices, bawling out the toasts
before the time, and pelting the ladies with pellets of bread. One
unprepossessing personage in a greasy coat had fallen off his chair as soon
as he sat down, and remained so till the end of supper. Another one made
desperate efforts to stand on the table, to propose a toast, and only the
officer, who seized him by the tails of his coat, moderated his premature
ardour. The supper was a pell-mell affair, although they had hired a cook
who had been in the service of a general; there was the galantine, there
was tongue and potatoes, there were rissoles with green peas, there was,
finally, a goose, and last of all blancmange. Among the drinks were beer,
vodka and sherry. The only bottle of champagne was standing beside the
general, which obliged him to pour it out for himself and also for Akim
Petrovitch, who did not venture at supper to officiate on his own
initiative. The other guests had to drink the toasts in Caucasian wine or
anything else they could get. The table was made up of several tables put
together, among them even a card-table. It was covered with many
tablecloths, amongst them one coloured Yaroslav cloth; the gentlemen sat
alternately with the ladies. Pseldonimov's mother would not sit down to the
table; she bustled about and supervised. But another sinister female
figure, who had not shown herself till then, appeared on the scene, wearing
a reddish silk dress, with a very high cap on her head and a bandage round
her face for toothache. It appeared that this was the bride's mother, who
had at last consented to emerge from a back room for supper. She had
refused to appear till then owing to her implacable hostility to
Pseldonimov's mother, but to that we will refer later. This lady looked
spitefully, even sarcastically, at the general, and evidently did not wish
to be presented to him. To Ivan Ilyitch this figure appeared suspicious in
the extreme. But apart from her, several other persons were suspicious and
inspired involuntary apprehension and uneasiness. It even seemed that they
were in some sort of plot together against Ivan Ilyitch. At any rate it
seemed so to him, and throughout the whole supper he became more and more
convinced of it. A gentleman with a beard, some sort of free artist, was
particularly sinister; he even looked at Ivan Ilyitch several times, and
then turning to his neighbour, whispered something. Another person present
was unmistakably drunk, but yet, from certain signs, was to be regarded
with suspicion. The medical student, too, gave rise to unpleasant
expectations. Even the officer himself was not quite to be depended on. But
the young man on the comic paper was blazing with hatred, he lolled in his
chair, he looked so haughty and conceited, he snorted so aggressively! And
though the rest of the guests took absolutely no notice of the young
journalist, who had contributed only four wretched poems to the
_Firebrand_, and had consequently become a Liberal and evidently, indeed,
disliked him, yet when a pellet of bread aimed in his direction fell near
Ivan Ilyitch, he was ready to stake his head that it had been thrown by no
other than the young man in question.

All this, of course, had a pitiable effect on him.

Another observation was particularly unpleasant. Ivan Ilyitch became aware
that he was beginning to articulate indistinctly and with difficulty, that
he was longing to say a great deal, but that his tongue refused to obey
him. And then he suddenly seemed to forget himself, and worst of all he
would suddenly burst into a loud guffaw of laughter, _à propos_ of nothing.
This inclination quickly passed off after a glass of champagne which Ivan
Ilyitch had not meant to drink, though he had poured it out and suddenly
drunk it quite by accident. After that glass he felt at once almost
inclined to cry. He felt that he was sinking into a most peculiar state of
sentimentality; he began to be again filled with love, he loved every one,
even Pseldonimov, even the young man on the comic paper. He suddenly longed
to embrace all of them, to forget everything and to be reconciled. What is
more, to tell them everything openly, all, all; that is, to tell them what
a good, nice man he was, with what wonderful talents. What services he
would do for his country, how good he was at entertaining the fair sex, and
above all, how progressive he was, how humanely ready he was to be
indulgent to all, to the very lowest; and finally in conclusion to tell
them frankly all the motives that had impelled him to turn up at
Pseldonimov's uninvited, to drink two bottles of champagne and to make him
happy with his presence.

"The truth, the holy truth and candour before all things! I will capture
them by candour. They will believe me, I see it clearly; they actually look
at me with hostility, but when I tell them all I shall conquer them
completely. They will fill their glasses and drink my health with shouts.
The officer will break his glass on his spur. Perhaps they will even shout
hurrah! Even if they want to toss me after the Hussar fashion I will not
oppose them, and indeed it would be very jolly! I will kiss the bride on
her forehead; she is charming. Akim Petrovitch is a very nice man, too.
Pseldonimov will improve, of course, later on. He will acquire, so to
speak, a society polish.... And although, of course, the younger generation
has not that delicacy of feeling, yet ... yet I will talk to them about the
contemporary significance of Russia among the European States. I will refer
to the peasant question, too; yes, and ... and they will all like me and I
shall leave with glory!..."

These dreams were, of course, extremely agreeable, but what was unpleasant
was that in the midst of these roseate anticipations, Ivan Ilyitch suddenly
discovered in himself another unexpected propensity, that was to spit.
Anyway saliva began running from his mouth apart from any will of his own.
He observed this on Akim Petrovitch, whose cheek he spluttered upon and who
sat not daring to wipe it off from respectfulness. Ivan Ilyitch took his
dinner napkin and wiped it himself, but this immediately struck him himself
as so incongruous, so opposed to all common sense, that he sank into
silence and began wondering. Though Akim Petrovitch emptied his glass, yet
he sat as though he were scalded. Ivan Ilyitch reflected now that he had
for almost a quarter of an hour been talking to him about some most
interesting subject, but that Akim Petrovitch had not only seemed
embarrassed as he listened, but positively frightened. Pseldonimov, who was
sitting one chair away from him, also craned his neck towards him, and
bending his head sideways, listened to him with the most unpleasant air. He
actually seemed to be keeping a watch on him. Turning his eyes upon the
rest of the company, he saw that many were looking straight at him and
laughing. But what was strangest of all was, that he was not in the least
embarrassed by it; on the contrary, he sipped his glass again and suddenly
began speaking so that all could hear:

"I was saying just now," he began as loudly as possible, "I was saying
just now, ladies and gentlemen, to Akim Petrovitch, that Russia ... yes,
Russia ... in short, you understand, that I mean to s-s-say ... Russia is
living, it is my profound conviction, through a period of hu-hu-manity...."

"Hu-hu-manity ..." was heard at the other end of the table.

"Hu-hu...."

"Tu-tu!"

Ivan Ilyitch stopped. Pseldonimov got up from his chair and began trying to
see who had shouted. Akim Petrovitch stealthily shook his head, as though
admonishing the guests. Ivan Ilyitch saw this distinctly, but in his
confusion said nothing.

"Humanity!" he continued obstinately; "and this evening ... and only this
evening I said to Stepan Niki-ki-foro-vitch ... yes ... that ... that the
regeneration, so to speak, of things...."

"Your Excellency!" was heard a loud exclamation at the other end of the
table.

"What is your pleasure?" answered Ivan Ilyitch, pulled up short and trying
to distinguish who had called to him.

"Nothing at all, your Excellency. I was carried away, continue!
Con-ti-nue!" the voice was heard again.

Ivan Ilyitch felt upset.

"The regeneration, so to speak, of those same things."

"Your Excellency!" the voice shouted again.

"What do you want?"

"How do you do!"

This time Ivan Ilyitch could not restrain himself. He broke off his speech
and turned to the assailant who had disturbed the general harmony. He was a
very young lad, still at school, who had taken more than a drop too much,
and was an object of great suspicion to the general. He had been shouting
for a long time past, and had even broken a glass and two plates,
maintaining that this was the proper thing to do at a wedding. At the
moment when Ivan Ilyitch turned towards him, the officer was beginning to
pitch into the noisy youngster.

"What are you about? Why are you yelling? We shall turn you out, that's
what we shall do."

"I don't mean you, your Excellency, I don't mean you. Continue!" cried the
hilarious schoolboy, lolling back in his chair. "Continue, I am listening,
and am very, ve-ry, ve-ry much pleased with you! Praisewor-thy,
praisewor-thy!"

"The wretched boy is drunk," said Pseldonimov in a whisper.

"I see that he is drunk, but...."

"I was just telling a very amusing anecdote, your Excellency!" began the
officer, "about a lieutenant in our company who was talking just like that
to his superior officers; so this young man is imitating him now. To every
word of his superior officers he said 'praiseworthy, praiseworthy!' He was
turned out of the army ten years ago on account of it."

"Wha-at lieutenant was that?"

"In our company, your Excellency, he went out of his mind over the word
praiseworthy. At first they tried gentle methods, then they put him under
arrest.... His commanding officer admonished him in the most fatherly way,
and he answered, 'praiseworthy, praiseworthy!' And strange to say, the
officer was a fine-looking man, over six feet. They meant to court-martial
him, but then they perceived that he was mad."

"So ... a schoolboy. A schoolboy's prank need not be taken seriously. For
my part I am ready to overlook it...."

"They held a medical inquiry, your Excellency."

"Upon my word, but he was alive, wasn't he?"

"What! Did they dissect him?"

A loud and almost universal roar of laughter resounded among the guests,
who had till then behaved with decorum. Ivan Ilyitch was furious.

"Ladies and gentlemen!" he shouted, at first scarcely stammering, "I am
fully capable of apprehending that a man is not dissected alive. I imagined
that in his derangement he had ceased to be alive ... that is, that he had
died ... that is, I mean to say ... that you don't like me ... and yet I
like you all ... Yes, I like Por ... Porfiry ... I am lowering myself by
speaking like this...."

At that moment Ivan Ilyitch spluttered so that a great dab of saliva flew
on to the tablecloth in a most conspicuous place. Pseldonimov flew to wipe
it off with a table-napkin. This last disaster crushed him completely.

"My friends, this is too much," he cried in despair.

"The man is drunk, your Excellency," Pseldonimov prompted him again.

"Porfiry, I see that you ... all ... yes! I say that I hope ... yes, I call
upon you all to tell me in what way have I lowered myself?"

Ivan Ilyitch was almost crying.

"Your Excellency, good heavens!"

"Porfiry, I appeal to you.... Tell me, when I came ... yes ... yes, to your
wedding, I had an object. I was aiming at moral elevation.... I wanted it
to be felt.... I appeal to all: am I greatly lowered in your eyes or not?"

A deathlike silence. That was just it, a deathlike silence, and to such a
downright question. "They might at least shout at this minute!" flashed
through his Excellency's head. But the guests only looked at one another.
Akim Petrovitch sat more dead than alive, while Pseldonimov, numb with
terror, was repeating to himself the awful question which had occurred to
him more than once already.

"What shall I have to pay for all this to-morrow?"

At this point the young man on the comic paper, who was very drunk but who
had hitherto sat in morose silence, addressed Ivan Ilyitch directly, and
with flashing eyes began answering in the name of the whole company.

"Yes," he said in a loud voice, "yes, you have lowered yourself. Yes, you
are a reactionary ... re-ac-tion-ary!"

"Young man, you are forgetting yourself! To whom are you speaking, so to
express it?" Ivan Ilyitch cried furiously, jumping up from his seat again.

"To you; and secondly, I am not a young man.... You've come to give
yourself airs and try to win popularity."

"Pseldonimov, what does this mean?" cried Ivan Ilyitch.

But Pseldonimov was reduced to such horror that he stood still like a post
and was utterly at a loss what to do. The guests, too, sat mute in their
seats. All but the artist and the schoolboy, who applauded and shouted,
"Bravo, bravo!"

The young man on the comic paper went on shouting with unrestrained
violence:

"Yes, you came to show off your humanity! You've hindered the enjoyment of
every one. You've been drinking champagne without thinking that it is
beyond the means of a clerk at ten roubles a month. And I suspect that you
are one of those high officials who are a little too fond of the young
wives of their clerks! What is more, I am convinced that you support State
monopolies.... Yes, yes, yes!"

"Pseldonimov, Pseldonimov," shouted Ivan Ilyitch, holding out his hands to
him. He felt that every word uttered by the comic young man was a fresh
dagger at his heart.

"Directly, your Excellency; please do not disturb yourself!" Pseldonimov
cried energetically, rushing up to the comic young man, seizing him by the
collar and dragging him away from the table. Such physical strength could
indeed not have been expected from the weakly looking Pseldonimov. But the
comic young man was very drunk, while Pseldonimov was perfectly sober. Then
he gave him two or three cuffs in the back, and thrust him out of the
door.

"You are all scoundrels!" roared the young man of the comic paper. "I will
caricature you all to-morrow in the _Firebrand_."

They all leapt up from their seats.

"Your Excellency, your Excellency!" cried Pseldonimov, his mother and
several others, crowding round the general; "your Excellency, do not be
disturbed!"

"No, no," cried the general, "I am annihilated.... I came... I meant to
bless you, so to speak. And this is how I am paid, for everything,
everything!..."

He sank on to a chair as though unconscious, laid both his arms on the
table, and bowed his head over them, straight into a plate of blancmange.
There is no need to describe the general horror. A minute later he got up,
evidently meaning to go out, gave a lurch, stumbled against the leg of a
chair, fell full length on the floor and snored....

This is what is apt to happen to men who don't drink when they accidentally
take a glass too much. They preserve their consciousness to the last point,
to the last minute, and then fall to the ground as though struck down. Ivan
Ilyitch lay on the floor absolutely unconscious. Pseldonimov clutched at
his hair and sat as though petrified in that position. The guests made
haste to depart, commenting each in his own way on the incident. It was
about three o'clock in the morning.

       *       *       *       *       *

The worst of it was that Pseldonimov's circumstances were far worse than
could have been imagined, in spite of the unattractiveness of his present
surroundings. And while Ivan Ilyitch is lying on the floor and Pseldonimov
is standing over him tearing his hair in despair, we will break off the
thread of our story and say a few explanatory words about Porfiry
Petrovitch Pseldonimov.

Not more than a month before his wedding he was in a state of hopeless
destitution. He came from a province where his father had served in some
department and where he had died while awaiting his trial on some charge.
When five months before his wedding, Pseldonimov, who had been in hopeless
misery in Petersburg for a whole year before, got his berth at ten roubles
a month, he revived both physically and mentally, but he was soon crushed
by circumstances again. There were only two Pseldonimovs left in the world,
himself and his mother, who had left the province after her husband's
death. The mother and son barely existed in the freezing cold, and
sustained life on the most dubious substances. There were days when
Pseldonimov himself went with a jug to the Fontanka for water to drink.
When he got his place he succeeded in settling with his mother in a
"corner." She took in washing, while for four months he scraped together
every farthing to get himself boots and an overcoat. And what troubles he
had to endure at his office; his superiors approached him with the
question: "How long was it since he had had a bath?" There was a rumour
about him that under the collar of his uniform there were nests of bugs.
But Pseldonimov was a man of strong character. On the surface he was mild
and meek; he had the merest smattering of education, he was practically
never heard to talk of anything. I do not know for certain whether he
thought, made plans and theories, had dreams. But on the other hand there
was being formed within him an instinctive, furtive, unconscious
determination to fight his way out of his wretched circumstances. He had
the persistence of an ant. Destroy an ants' nest, and they will begin at
once re-erecting it; destroy it again, and they will begin again without
wearying. He was a constructive house-building animal. One could see from
his brow that he would make his way, would build his nest, and perhaps even
save for a rainy day. His mother was the only creature in the world who
loved him, and she loved him beyond everything. She was a woman of
resolute character, hard-working and indefatigable, and at the same time
good-natured. So perhaps they might have lived in their corner for five or
six years till their circumstances changed, if they had not come across the
retired titular councillor Mlekopitaev, who had been a clerk in the
treasury and had served at one time in the provinces, but had latterly
settled in Petersburg and had established himself there with his family. He
knew Pseldonimov, and had at one time been under some obligation to his
father. He had a little money, not a large sum, of course, but there it
was; how much it was no one knew, not his wife, nor his elder daughter, nor
his relations. He had two daughters, and as he was an awful bully, a
drunkard, a domestic tyrant, and in addition to that an invalid, he took it
into his head one day to marry one of his daughters to Pseldonimov: "I knew
his father," he would say, "he was a good fellow and his son will be a good
fellow." Mlekopitaev did exactly as he liked, his word was law. He was a
very queer bully. For the most part he spent his time sitting in an
arm-chair, having lost the use of his legs from some disease which did not,
however, prevent him from drinking vodka. For days together he would be
drinking and swearing. He was an ill-natured man. He always wanted to have
some one whom he could be continually tormenting. And for that purpose he
kept several distant relations: his sister, a sickly and peevish woman; two
of his wife's sisters, also ill-natured and very free with their tongues,
and his old aunt, who had through some accident a broken rib; he kept
another dependent also, a Russianised German, for the sake of her talent
for entertaining him with stories from the _Arabian Nights_. His sole
gratification consisted in jeering at all these unfortunate women and
abusing them every minute with all his energies; though the latter, not
excepting his wife, who had been born with toothache, dared not utter a
word in his presence. He set them at loggerheads at one another, inventing
and fostering spiteful backbiting and dissensions among them, and then
laughed and rejoiced seeing how they were ready to tear one another to
pieces. He was very much delighted when his elder daughter, who had lived
in great poverty for ten years with her husband, an officer of some sort,
and was at last left a widow, came to live with him with three little
sickly children. He could not endure her children, but as her arrival had
increased the material upon which he could work his daily experiments, the
old man was very much pleased. All these ill-natured women and sickly
children, together with their tormentor, were crowded together in a wooden
house on Petersburg Side, and did not get enough to eat because the old man
was stingy and gave out to them money a farthing at a time, though he did
not grudge himself vodka; they did not get enough sleep because the old man
suffered from sleeplessness and insisted on being amused. In short, they
all were in misery and cursed their fate. It was at that time that
Mlekopitaev's eye fell upon Pseldonimov. He was struck by his long nose and
submissive air. His weakly and unprepossessing younger daughter had just
reached the age of seventeen. Though she had at one time attended a German
school, she had acquired scarcely anything but the alphabet. Then she grew
up rickety and anæmic in fear of her crippled drunken father's crutch, in a
Bedlam of domestic backbiting, eavesdropping and scolding. She had never
had any friends or any brains. She had for a long time been eager to be
married. In company she sat mute, but at home with her mother and the women
of the household she was spiteful and cantankerous. She was particularly
fond of pinching and smacking her sister's children, telling tales of their
pilfering bread and sugar, and this led to endless and implacable strife
with her elder sister. Her old father himself offered her to Pseldonimov.
Miserable as the latter's position was, he yet asked for a little time to
consider. His mother and he hesitated for a long time. But with the young
lady there was to come as dowry a house, and though it was a nasty little
wooden house of one storey, yet it was property of a kind. Moreover, they
would give with her four hundred roubles, and how long it would take him to
save it up himself! "What am I taking the man into my house for?" shouted
the drunken bully. "In the first place because you are all females, and I
am sick of female society. I want Pseldonimov, too, to dance to my piping.
For I am his benefactor. And in the second place I am doing it because you
are all cross and don't want it, so I'll do it to spite you. What I have
said, I have said! And you beat her, Porfiry, when she is your wife; she
has been possessed of seven devils ever since she was born. You beat them
out of her, and I'll get the stick ready."

Pseldonimov made no answer, but he was already decided. Before the wedding
his mother and he were taken into the house, washed, clothed, provided with
boots and money for the wedding. The old man took them under his protection
possibly just because the whole family was prejudiced against them. He
positively liked Pseldonimov's mother, so that he actually restrained
himself and did not jeer at her. On the other hand, he made Pseldonimov
dance the Cossack dance a week before the wedding.

"Well, that's enough. I only wanted to see whether you remembered your
position before me or not," he said at the end of the dance. He allowed
just enough money for the wedding, with nothing to spare, and invited all
his relations and acquaintances. On Pseldonimov's side there was no one but
the young man who wrote for the _Firebrand_, and Akim Petrovitch, the guest
of honour. Pseldonimov was perfectly aware that his bride cherished an
aversion for him, and that she was set upon marrying the officer instead of
him. But he put up with everything, he had made a compact with his mother
to do so. The old father had been drunk and abusive and foul-tongued the
whole of the wedding day and during the party in the evening. The whole
family took refuge in the back rooms and were crowded there to suffocation.
The front rooms were devoted to the dance and the supper. At last when the
old man fell asleep dead drunk at eleven o'clock, the bride's mother, who
had been particularly displeased with Pseldonimov's mother that day, made
up her mind to lay aside her wrath, become gracious and join the company.
Ivan Ilyitch's arrival had turned everything upside down. Madame
Mlekopitaev was overcome with embarrassment, and began grumbling that she
had not been told that the general had been invited. She was assured that
he had come uninvited, but was so stupid as to refuse to believe it.
Champagne had to be got. Pseldonimov's mother had only one rouble, while
Pseldonimov himself had not one farthing. He had to grovel before his
ill-natured mother-in-law, to beg for the money for one bottle and then for
another. They pleaded for the sake of his future position in the service,
for his career, they tried to persuade her. She did at last give from her
own purse, but she forced Pseldonimov to swallow such a cupful of gall and
bitterness that more than once he ran into the room where the nuptial couch
had been prepared, and madly clutching at his hair and trembling all over
with impotent rage, he buried his head in the bed destined for the joys of
paradise. No, indeed, Ivan Ilyitch had no notion of the price paid for the
two bottles of Jackson he had drunk that evening. What was the horror, the
misery and even the despair of Pseldonimov when Ivan Ilyitch's visit ended
in this unexpected way. He had a prospect again of no end of misery, and
perhaps a night of tears and outcries from his peevish bride, and
upbraidings from her unreasonable relations. Even apart from this his head
ached already, and there was dizziness and mist before his eyes. And here
Ivan Ilyitch needed looking after, at three o'clock at night he had to
hunt for a doctor or a carriage to take him home, and a carriage it must
be, for it would be impossible to let an ordinary cabby take him home in
that condition. And where could he get the money even for a carriage?
Madame Mlekopitaev, furious that the general had not addressed two words to
her, and had not even looked at her at supper, declared that she had not a
farthing. Possibly she really had not a farthing. Where could he get it?
What was he to do? Yes, indeed, he had good cause to tear his hair.

       *       *       *       *       *

Meanwhile Ivan Ilyitch was moved to a little leather sofa that stood in the
dining-room. While they were clearing the tables and putting them away,
Pseldonimov was rushing all over the place to borrow money, he even tried
to get it from the servants, but it appeared that nobody had any. He even
ventured to trouble Akim Petrovitch who had stayed after the other guests.
But good-natured as he was, the latter was reduced to such bewilderment and
even alarm at the mention of money that he uttered the most unexpected and
foolish phrases:

"Another time, with pleasure," he muttered, "but now ... you really must
excuse me...."

And taking his cap, he ran as fast as he could out of the house. Only the
good-natured youth who had talked about the dream book was any use at all;
and even that came to nothing. He, too, stayed after the others, showing
genuine sympathy with Pseldonimov's misfortunes. At last Pseldonimov,
together with his mother and the young man, decided in consultation not to
send for a doctor, but rather to fetch a carriage and take the invalid
home, and meantime to try certain domestic remedies till the carriage
arrived, such as moistening his temples and his head with cold water,
putting ice on his head, and so on. Pseldonimov's mother undertook this
task. The friendly youth flew off in search of a carriage. As there were
not even ordinary cabs to be found on the Petersburg Side at that hour, he
went off to some livery stables at a distance to wake up the coachmen. They
began bargaining, and declared that five roubles would be little to ask for
a carriage at that time of night. They agreed to come, however, for three.
When at last, just before five o'clock, the young man arrived at
Pseldonimov's with the carriage, they had changed their minds. It appeared
that Ivan Ilyitch, who was still unconscious, had become so seriously
unwell, was moaning and tossing so terribly, that to move him and take him
home in such a condition was impossible and actually unsafe. "What will it
lead to next?" said Pseldonimov, utterly disheartened. What was to be done?
A new problem arose: if the invalid remained in the house, where should he
be moved and where could they put him? There were only two bedsteads in the
house: one large double bed in which old Mlekopitaev and his wife slept,
and another double bed of imitation walnut which had just been purchased
and was destined for the newly married couple. All the other inhabitants of
the house slept on the floor side by side on feather beds, for the most
part in bad condition and stuffy, anything but presentable in fact, and
even of these the supply was insufficient; there was not one to spare.
Where could the invalid be put? A feather bed might perhaps have been
found--it might in the last resort have been pulled from under some one,
but where and on what could a bed have been made up? It seemed that the bed
must be made up in the drawing-room, for that room was the furthest from
the bosom of the family and had a door into the passage. But on what could
the bed be made? Surely not upon chairs. We all know that beds can only be
made up on chairs for schoolboys when they come home for the week end, and
it would be terribly lacking in respect to make up a bed in that way for a
personage like Ivan Ilyitch. What would be said next morning when he found
himself lying on chairs? Pseldonimov would not hear of that. The only
alternative was to put him on the bridal couch. This bridal couch, as we
have mentioned already, was in a little room that opened out of the
dining-room, on the bedstead was a double mattress actually newly bought
first-hand, clean sheets, four pillows in pink calico covered with frilled
muslin cases. The quilt was of pink satin, and it was quilted in patterns.
Muslin curtains hung down from a golden ring overhead, in fact it was all
just as it should be, and the guests who had all visited the bridal chamber
had admired the decoration of it; though the bride could not endure
Pseldonimov, she had several times in the course of the evening run in to
have a look at it on the sly. What was her indignation, her wrath, when she
learned that they meant to move an invalid, suffering from something not
unlike a mild attack of cholera, to her bridal couch! The bride's mother
took her part, broke into abuse and vowed she would complain to her husband
next day, but Pseldonimov asserted himself and insisted: Ivan Ilyitch was
moved into the bridal chamber, and a bed was made up on chairs for the
young people. The bride whimpered, would have liked to pinch him, but dared
not disobey; her papa had a crutch with which she was very familiar, and
she knew that her papa would call her to account next day. To console her
they carried the pink satin quilt and the pillows in muslin cases into the
drawing-room. At that moment the youth arrived with the carriage, and was
horribly alarmed that the carriage was not wanted. He was left to pay for
it himself, and he never had as much as a ten-kopeck piece. Pseldonimov
explained that he was utterly bankrupt. They tried to parley with the
driver. But he began to be noisy and even to batter on the shutters. How it
ended I don't know exactly. I believe the youth was carried off to Peski by
way of a hostage to Fourth Rozhdensky Street, where he hoped to rouse a
student who was spending the night at a friend's, and to try whether he
had any money. It was going on for six o'clock in the morning when the
young people were left alone and shut up in the drawing-room. Pseldonimov's
mother spent the whole night by the bedside of the sufferer. She installed
herself on a rug on the floor and covered herself with an old coat, but
could not sleep because she had to get up every minute: Ivan Ilyitch had a
terrible attack of colic. Madame Pseldonimov, a woman of courage and
greatness of soul, undressed him with her own hands, took off all his
things, looked after him as if he were her own son, and spent the whole
night carrying basins, etc., from the bedroom across the passage and
bringing them back again empty. And yet the misfortunes of that night were
not yet over.

       *       *       *       *       *

Not more than ten minutes after the young people had been shut up alone in
the drawing-room, a piercing shriek was suddenly heard, not a cry of joy,
but a shriek of the most sinister kind. The screams were followed by a
noise, a crash, as though of the falling of chairs, and instantly there
burst into the still dark room a perfect crowd of exclaiming and frightened
women, attired in every kind of _déshabillé_. These women were the bride's
mother, her elder sister, abandoning for the moment the sick children, and
her three aunts, even the one with a broken rib dragged herself in. Even
the cook was there, and the German lady who told stories, whose own feather
bed, the best in the house, and her only property, had been forcibly
dragged from under her for the young couple, trailed in together with the
others. All these respectable and sharp-eyed ladies had, a quarter of an
hour before, made their way on tiptoe from the kitchen across the passage,
and were listening in the ante-room, devoured by unaccountable curiosity.
Meanwhile some one lighted a candle, and a surprising spectacle met the
eyes of all. The chairs supporting the broad feather bed only at the sides
had parted under the weight, and the feather bed had fallen between them on
the floor. The bride was sobbing with anger, this time she was mortally
offended. Pseldonimov, morally shattered, stood like a criminal caught in a
crime. He did not even attempt to defend himself. Shrieks and exclamations
sounded on all sides. Pseldonimov's mother ran up at the noise, but the
bride's mamma on this occasion got the upper hand. She began by showering
strange and for the most part quite undeserved reproaches, such as: "A nice
husband you are, after this. What are you good for after such a disgrace?"
and so on; and at last carried her daughter away from her husband,
undertaking to bear the full responsibility for doing so with her ferocious
husband, who would demand an explanation. All the others followed her out
exclaiming and shaking their heads. No one remained with Pseldonimov except
his mother, who tried to comfort him. But he sent her away at once.

He was beyond consolation. He made his way to the sofa and sat down in the
most gloomy confusion of mind just as he was, barefooted and in nothing but
his night attire. His thoughts whirled in a tangled criss-cross in his
mind. At times he mechanically looked about the room where only a little
while ago the dancers had been whirling madly, and in which the cigarette
smoke still lingered. Cigarette ends and sweet-meat papers still littered
the slopped and dirty floor. The wreck of the nuptial couch and the
overturned chairs bore witness to the transitoriness of the fondest and
surest earthly hopes and dreams. He sat like this almost an hour. The most
oppressive thoughts kept coming into his mind, such as the doubt: What was
in store for him in the office now? He recognised with painful clearness
that he would have, at all costs, to exchange into another department; that
he could not possibly remain where he was after all that had happened that
evening. He thought, too, of Mlekopitaev, who would probably make him
dance the Cossack dance next day to test his meekness. He reflected, too,
that though Mlekopitaev had given fifty roubles for the wedding
festivities, every farthing of which had been spent, he had not thought of
giving him the four hundred roubles yet, no mention had been made of it, in
fact. And, indeed, even the house had not been formally made over to him.
He thought, too, of his wife who had left him at the most critical moment
of his life, of the tall officer who had dropped on one knee before her. He
had noticed that already; he thought of the seven devils which according to
the testimony of her own father were in possession of his wife, and of the
crutch in readiness to drive them out.... Of course he felt equal to
bearing a great deal, but destiny had let loose such surprises upon him
that he might well have doubts of his fortitude. So Pseldonimov mused
dolefully. Meanwhile the candle end was going out, its fading light,
falling straight upon Pseldonimov's profile, threw a colossal shadow of it
on the wall, with a drawn-out neck, a hooked nose, and with two tufts of
hair sticking out on his forehead and the back of his head. At last, when
the air was growing cool with the chill of early morning, he got up, frozen
and spiritually numb, crawled to the feather bed that was lying between the
chairs, and without rearranging anything, without putting out the candle
end, without even laying the pillow under his head, fell into a leaden,
deathlike sleep, such as the sleep of men condemned to flogging on the
morrow must be.

       *       *       *       *       *

On the other hand, what could be compared with the agonising night spent by
Ivan Ilyitch Pralinsky on the bridal couch of the unlucky Pseldonimov! For
some time, headache, vomiting and other most unpleasant symptoms did not
leave him for one second. He was in the torments of hell. The faint
glimpses of consciousness that visited his brain, lighted up such an abyss
of horrors, such gloomy and revolting pictures, that it would have been
better for him not to have returned to consciousness. Everything was still
in a turmoil in his mind, however. He recognised Pseldonimov's mother, for
instance, heard her gentle admonitions, such as: "Be patient, my dear; be
patient, good sir, it won't be so bad presently." He recognised her, but
could give no logical explanation of her presence beside him. Revolting
phantoms haunted him, most frequently of all he was haunted by Semyon
Ivanitch; but looking more intently, he saw that it was not Semyon Ivanitch
but Pseldonimov's nose. He had visions, too, of the free-and-easy artist,
and the officer and the old lady with her face tied up. What interested him
most of all was the gilt ring which hung over his head, through which the
curtains hung. He could distinguish it distinctly in the dim light of the
candle end which lighted up the room, and he kept wondering inwardly: What
was the object of that ring, why was it there, what did it mean? He
questioned the old lady several times about it, but apparently did not say
what he meant; and she evidently did not understand it, however much he
struggled to explain. At last by morning the symptoms had ceased and he
fell into a sleep, a sound sleep without dreams. He slept about an hour,
and when he woke he was almost completely conscious, with an insufferable
headache, and a disgusting taste in his mouth and on his tongue, which
seemed turned into a piece of cloth. He sat up in the bed, looked about
him, and pondered. The pale light of morning peeping through the cracks of
the shutters in a narrow streak, quivered on the wall. It was about seven
o'clock in the morning. But when Ivan Ilyitch suddenly grasped the position
and recalled all that had happened to him since the evening; when he
remembered all his adventures at supper, the failure of his magnanimous
action, his speech at table; when he realised all at once with horrifying
clearness all that might come of this now, all that people would say and
think of him; when he looked round and saw to what a mournful and hideous
condition he had reduced the peaceful bridal couch of his clerk--oh, then
such deadly shame, such agony overwhelmed him, that he uttered a shriek,
hid his face in his hands and fell back on the pillow in despair. A minute
later he jumped out of bed, saw his clothes carefully folded and brushed on
a chair beside him, and seizing them, and as quickly as he could, in
desperate haste began putting them on, looking round and seeming terribly
frightened at something. On another chair close by lay his greatcoat and
fur cap, and his yellow gloves were in his cap. He meant to steal away
secretly. But suddenly the door opened and the elder Madame Pseldonimov
walked in with an earthenware jug and basin. A towel was hanging over her
shoulder. She set down the jug, and without further conversation told him
that he must wash.

"Come, my good sir, wash; you can't go without washing...."

And at that instant Ivan Ilyitch recognised that if there was one being in
the whole world whom he need not fear, and before whom he need not feel
ashamed, it was that old lady. He washed. And long afterwards, at painful
moments of his life, he recalled among other pangs of remorse all the
circumstances of that waking, and that earthenware basin, and the china jug
filled with cold water in which there were still floating icicles, and the
oval cake of soap at fifteen kopecks, in pink paper with letters embossed
on it, evidently bought for the bridal pair though it fell to Ivan Ilyitch
to use it, and the old lady with the linen towel over her left shoulder.
The cold water refreshed him, he dried his face, and without even thanking
his sister of mercy, he snatched up his hat, flung over his shoulders the
coat handed to him by Pseldonimov, and crossing the passage and the
kitchen where the cat was already mewing, and the cook sitting up in her
bed staring after him with greedy curiosity, ran out into the yard, into
the street, and threw himself into the first sledge he came across. It was
a frosty morning. A chilly yellow fog still hid the house and everything.
Ivan Ilyitch turned up his collar. He thought that every one was looking at
him, that they were all recognising him, all....

       *       *       *       *       *

For eight days he did not leave the house or show himself at the office. He
was ill, wretchedly ill, but more morally than physically. He lived through
a perfect hell in those days, and they must have been reckoned to his
account in the other world. There were moments when he thought of becoming
a monk and entering a monastery. There really were. His imagination,
indeed, took special excursions during that period. He pictured subdued
subterranean singing, an open coffin, living in a solitary cell, forests
and caves; but when he came to himself he recognised almost at once that
all this was dreadful nonsense and exaggeration, and was ashamed of this
nonsense. Then began attacks of moral agony on the theme of his _existence
manquée_. Then shame flamed up again in his soul, took complete possession
of him at once, consumed him like fire and re-opened his wounds. He
shuddered as pictures of all sorts rose before his mind. What would people
say about him, what would they think when he walked into his office? What a
whisper would dog his steps for a whole year, ten years, his whole life!
His story would go down to posterity. He sometimes fell into such dejection
that he was ready to go straight off to Semyon Ivanovitch and ask for his
forgiveness and friendship. He did not even justify himself, there was no
limit to his blame of himself. He could find no extenuating circumstances,
and was ashamed of trying to.

He had thoughts, too, of resigning his post at once and devoting himself to
human happiness as a simple citizen, in solitude. In any case he would have
completely to change his whole circle of acquaintances, and so thoroughly
as to eradicate all memory of himself. Then the thought occurred to him
that this, too, was nonsense, and that if he adopted greater severity with
his subordinates it might all be set right. Then he began to feel hope and
courage again. At last, at the expiration of eight days of hesitation and
agonies, he felt that he could not endure to be in uncertainty any longer,
and _un beau matin_ he made up his mind to go to the office.

He had pictured a thousand times over his return to the office as he sat at
home in misery. With horror and conviction he told himself that he would
certainly hear behind him an ambiguous whisper, would see ambiguous faces,
would intercept ominous smiles. What was his surprise when nothing of the
sort happened. He was greeted with respect; he was met with bows; every one
was grave; every one was busy. His heart was filled with joy as he made his
way to his own room.

He set to work at once with the utmost gravity, he listened to some reports
and explanations, settled doubtful points. He felt as though he had never
explained knotty points and given his decisions so intelligently, so
judiciously as that morning. He saw that they were satisfied with him, that
they respected him, that he was treated with respect. The most thin-skinned
sensitiveness could not have discovered anything.

At last Akim Petrovitch made his appearance with some document. The sight
of him sent a stab to Ivan Ilyitch's heart, but only for an instant. He
went into the business with Akim Petrovitch, talked with dignity, explained
things, and showed him what was to be done. The only thing he noticed was
that he avoided looking at Akim Petrovitch for any length of time, or
rather Akim Petrovitch seemed afraid of catching his eye, but at last Akim
Petrovitch had finished and began to collect his papers.

"And there is one other matter," he began as dryly as he could, "the clerk
Pseldonimov's petition to be transferred to another department. His
Excellency Semyon Ivanovitch Shipulenko has promised him a post. He begs
your gracious assent, your Excellency."

"Oh, so he is being transferred," said Ivan Ilyitch, and he felt as though
a heavy weight had rolled off his heart. He glanced at Akim Petrovitch, and
at that instant their eyes met. "Certainly, I for my part ... I will use,"
answered Ivan Ilyitch; "I am ready."

Akim Petrovitch evidently wanted to slip away as quickly as he could. But
in a rush of generous feeling Ivan Ilyitch determined to speak out.
Apparently some inspiration had come to him again.

"Tell him," he began, bending a candid glance full of profound meaning upon
Akim Petrovitch, "tell Pseldonimov that I feel no ill-will, no, I do
not!... That on the contrary I am ready to forget all that is past, to
forget it all...."

But all at once Ivan Ilyitch broke off, looking with wonder at the strange
behaviour of Akim Petrovitch, who suddenly seemed transformed from a
sensible person into a fearful fool. Instead of listening and hearing Ivan
Ilyitch to the end, he suddenly flushed crimson in the silliest way, began
with positively unseemly haste making strange little bows, and at the same
time edging towards the door. His whole appearance betrayed a desire to
sink through the floor, or more accurately, to get back to his table as
quickly as possible. Ivan Ilyitch, left alone, got up from his chair in
confusion; he looked in the looking-glass without noticing his face.

"No, severity, severity and nothing but severity," he whispered almost
unconsciously, and suddenly a vivid flush over-spread his face. He felt
suddenly more ashamed, more weighed down than he had been in the most
insufferable moments of his eight days of tribulation. "I did break down!"
he said to himself, and sank helplessly into his chair.




ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE

OR

THE HUSBAND UNDER THE BED

AN EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE


I

"Be so kind, sir ... allow me to ask you...."

The gentleman so addressed started and looked with some alarm at the
gentleman in raccoon furs who had accosted him so abruptly at eight o'clock
in the evening in the street. We all know that if a Petersburg gentleman
suddenly in the street speaks to another gentleman with whom he is
unacquainted, the second gentleman is invariably alarmed.

And so the gentleman addressed started and was somewhat alarmed.

"Excuse me for troubling you," said the gentleman in raccoon, "but I ... I
really don't know ... you will pardon me, no doubt; you see, I am a little
upset...."

Only then the young man in the wadded overcoat observed that this gentleman
in the raccoon furs certainly was upset. His wrinkled face was rather pale,
his voice was trembling. He was evidently in some confusion of mind, his
words did not flow easily from his tongue, and it could be seen that it
cost him a terrible effort to present a very humble request to a personage
possibly his inferior in rank or condition, in spite of the urgent
necessity of addressing his request to somebody. And indeed the request was
in any case unseemly, undignified, strange, coming from a man who had such
a dignified fur coat, such a respectable jacket of a superb dark green
colour, and such distinguished decorations adorning that jacket. It was
evident that the gentleman in raccoon was himself confused by all this, so
that at last he could not stand it, but made up his mind to suppress his
emotion and politely to put an end to the unpleasant position he had
himself brought about.

"Excuse me, I am not myself: but it is true you don't know me ... forgive
me for disturbing you; I have changed my mind."

Here, from politeness, he raised his hat and hurried off.

"But allow me...."

The little gentleman had, however, vanished into the darkness, leaving the
gentleman in the wadded overcoat in a state of stupefaction.

"What a queer fellow!" thought the gentleman in the wadded overcoat. After
wondering, as was only natural, and recovering at last from his
stupefaction, he bethought him of his own affairs, and began walking to and
fro, staring intently at the gates of a house with an endless number of
storeys. A fog was beginning to come on, and the young man was somewhat
relieved at it, for his walking up and down was less noticeable in the fog,
though indeed no one could have noticed him but some cabman who had been
waiting all day without a fare.

"Excuse me!"

The young man started again; again the gentleman in raccoon was standing
before him.

"Excuse me again ..." he began, "but you ... you are no doubt an honourable
man! Take no notice of my social position ... but I am getting muddled ...
look at it as man to man ... you see before you, sir, a man craving a
humble favour...."

"If I can.... What do you want?"

"You imagine, perhaps, that I am asking for money," said the mysterious
gentleman, with a wry smile, laughing hysterically and turning pale.

"Oh, dear, no."

"No, I see that I am tiresome to you! Excuse me, I cannot bear myself;
consider that you are seeing a man in an agitated condition, almost of
insanity, and do not draw any conclusion...."

"But to the point, to the point," responded the young man, nodding his head
encouragingly and impatiently.

"Now think of that! A young man like you reminding me to keep to the point,
as though I were some heedless boy! I must certainly be doting!... How do I
seem to you in my degrading position? Tell me frankly."

The young man was overcome with confusion, and said nothing.

"Allow me to ask you openly: have you not seen a lady? That is all that I
have to ask you," the gentleman in the raccoon coat said resolutely at
last.

"Lady?"

"Yes, a lady."

"Yes, I have seen ... but I must say lots of them have passed...."

"Just so," answered the mysterious gentleman, with a bitter smile. "I am
muddled, I did not mean to ask that; excuse me, I meant to say, haven't you
seen a lady in a fox fur cape, in a dark velvet hood and a black veil?"

"No, I haven't noticed one like that ... no. I think I haven't seen one."

"Well, in that case, excuse me!"

The young man wanted to ask a question, but the gentleman in raccoon
vanished again; again he left his patient listener in a state of
stupefaction.

"Well, the devil take him!" thought the young man in the wadded overcoat,
evidently troubled.

With annoyance he turned up his beaver collar, and began cautiously
walking to and fro again before the gates of the house of many storeys. He
was raging inwardly.

"Why doesn't she come out?" he thought. "It will soon be eight o'clock."

The town clock struck eight.

"Oh, devil take you!"

"Excuse me!..."

"Excuse me for speaking like that ... but you came upon me so suddenly that
you quite frightened me," said the young man, frowning and apologising.

"Here I am again. I must strike you as tiresome and queer."

"Be so good as to explain at once, without more ado; I don't know what it
is you want...."

"You are in a hurry. Do you see, I will tell you everything openly, without
wasting words. It cannot be helped. Circumstances sometimes bring together
people of very different characters.... But I see you are impatient, young
man.... So here ... though I really don't know how to tell you: I am
looking for a lady (I have made up my mind to tell you all about it). You
see, I must know where that lady has gone. Who she is--I imagine there is
no need for you to know her name, young man."

"Well, well, what next?"

"What next? But what a tone you take with me! Excuse me, but perhaps I have
offended you by calling you young man, but I had nothing ... in short, if
you are willing to do me a very great service, here it is: a lady--that is,
I mean a gentlewoman of a very good family, of my acquaintance ... I have
been commissioned ... I have no family, you see...."

"Oh!"

"Put yourself in my position, young man (ah, I've done it again; excuse me,
I keep calling you young man). Every minute is precious.... Only fancy,
that lady ... but cannot you tell me who lives in this house?"

"But ... lots of people live here."

"Yes, that is, you are perfectly right," answered the gentleman in raccoon,
giving a slight laugh for the sake of good manners. "I feel I am rather
muddled.... But why do you take that tone? You see, I admit frankly that I
am muddled, and however haughty you are, you have seen enough of my
humiliation to satisfy you.... I say a lady of honourable conduct, that is,
of light tendencies--excuse me, I am so confused; it is as though I were
speaking of literature--Paul de Kock is supposed to be of light tendencies,
and all the trouble comes from him, you see...."

The young man looked compassionately at the gentleman in raccoon, who
seemed in a hopeless muddle and pausing, stared at him with a meaningless
smile and with a trembling hand for no apparent reason gripped the lappet
of his wadded overcoat.

"You ask who lives here?" said the young man, stepping back a little.

"Yes; you told me lots of people live here."

"Here ... I know that Sofya Ostafyevna lives here, too," the young man
brought out in a low and even commiserating tone.

"There, you see, you see! You know something, young man?"

"I assure you I don't, I know nothing ... I judged from your troubled
air...."

"I have just learned from the cook that she does come here; but you are on
the wrong tack, that is, with Sofya Ostafyevna ... she does not know
her...."

"No? Oh ... I beg your pardon, then...."

"I see this is of no interest to you, young man," said the queer man, with
bitter irony.

"Listen," said the young man, hesitating. "I really don't understand why
you are in such a state, but tell me frankly, I suppose you are being
deceived?" The young man smiled approvingly. "We shall understand one
another, anyway," he added, and his whole person loftily betrayed an
inclination to make a half-bow.

"You crush me! But I frankly confess that is just it ... but it happens to
every one!... I am deeply touched by your sympathy. To be sure, among young
men ... though I am not young; but you know, habit, a bachelor life, among
bachelors, we all know...."

"Oh, yes, we all know, we all know! But in what way can I be of assistance
to you?"

"Why, look here: admitting a visit to Sofya Ostafyevna ... though I don't
know for a fact where the lady has gone, I only know that she is in that
house; but seeing you walking up and down, and I am walking up and down on
the same side myself, I thought ... you see, I am waiting for that lady ...
I know that she is there. I should like to meet her and explain to her how
shocking and improper it is!... In fact, you understand me...."

"H'm! Well?"

"I am not acting for myself; don't imagine it; it is another man's wife!
Her husband is standing over there on the Voznesensky Bridge; he wants to
catch her, but he doesn't dare; he is still loath to believe it, as every
husband is." (Here the gentleman in raccoon made an effort to smile.) "I am
a friend of his; you can see for yourself I am a person held in some
esteem; I could not be what you take me for."

"Oh, of course. Well, well!"

"So, you see, I am on the look out for her. The task has been entrusted to
me (the unhappy husband!). But I know that the young lady is sly (Paul de
Kock for ever under her pillow); I am certain she scurries off somewhere on
the sly.... I must confess the cook told me she comes here; I rushed off
like a madman as soon as I heard the news; I want to catch her. I have long
had suspicions, and so I wanted to ask you; you are walking here ...
you--you--I don't know...."

"Come, what is it you want?"

"Yes ... I have not the honour of your acquaintance; I do not venture to
inquire who and what you may be.... Allow me to introduce myself, anyway;
glad to meet you!..."

The gentleman, quivering with agitation, warmly shook the young man's hand.

"I ought to have done this to begin with," he added, "but I have lost all
sense of good manners."

The gentleman in raccoon could not stand still as he talked; he kept
looking about him uneasily, fidgeted with his feet, and like a drowning man
clutched at the young man's hand.

"You see," he went on, "I meant to address you in a friendly way.... Excuse
the freedom.... I meant to ask you to walk along the other side and down
the side street, where there is a back entrance. I, too, on my side, will
walk from the front entrance, so that we cannot miss her; I'm afraid of
missing her by myself; I don't want to miss her. When you see her, stop her
and shout to me.... But I'm mad! Only now I see the foolishness and
impropriety of my suggestion!..."

"No, why, no! It's all right!..."

"Don't make excuses for me; I am so upset. I have never been in such a
state before. As though I were being tried for my life! I must own
indeed--I will be straightforward and honourable with you, young man; I
actually thought you might be the lover."

"That is, to put it simply, you want to know what I am doing here?"

"You are an honourable man, my dear sir. I am far from supposing that you
are _he_, I will not insult you with such a suspicion; but ... give me your
word of honour that you are not the lover...."

"Oh, very well, I'll give you my word of honour that I am a lover, but not
of your wife; otherwise I shouldn't be here in the street, but should be
with her now!"

"Wife! Who told you she was my wife, young man? I am a bachelor, I--that
is, I am a lover myself...."

"You told me there is a husband on Voznesensky Bridge...."

"Of course, of course, I am talking too freely; but there are other ties!
And you know, young man, a certain lightness of character, that is...."

"Yes, yes, to be sure, to be sure...."

"That is, I am not her husband at all...."

"Oh, no doubt. But I tell you frankly that in reassuring you now, I want to
set my own mind at rest, and that is why I am candid with you; you are
upsetting me and in my way. I promise that I will call you. But I most
humbly beg you to move further away and let me alone. I am waiting for some
one too."

"Certainly, certainly, I will move further off. I respect the passionate
impatience of your heart. Oh, how well I understand you at this moment!"

"Oh, all right, all right...."

"Till we meet again!... But excuse me, young man, here I am again ... I
don't know how to say it ... give me your word of honour once more, as a
gentleman, that you are not her lover."

"Oh, mercy on us!"

"One more question, the last: do you know the surname of the husband of
your ... that is, I mean the lady who is the object of your devotion?"

"Of course I do; it is not your name, and that is all about it."

"Why, how do you know my name?"

"But, I say, you had better go; you are losing time; she might go away a
thousand times. Why, what do you want? Your lady's in a fox cape and a
hood, while mine is wearing a plaid cloak and a pale blue velvet hat....
What more do you want? What else?"

"A pale blue velvet hat! She has a plaid cloak and a pale blue velvet hat!"
cried the pertinacious man, instantly turning back again.

"Oh, hang it all! Why, that may well be.... And, indeed, my lady does not
come here!"

"Where is she, then--your lady?"

"You want to know that? What is it to you?"

"I must own, I am still...."

"Tfoo! Mercy on us! Why, you have no sense of decency, none at all. Well,
my lady has friends here, on the third storey looking into the street. Why,
do you want me to tell you their names?"

"My goodness, I have friends too, who live on the third storey, and their
windows look on to the street.... General...."

"General!"

"A general. If you like I will tell you what general: well, then ...
General Polovitsyn."

"You don't say so! No, that is not the same! (Oh, damnation, damnation!)."

"Not the same?"

"No, not th

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