Chapter I
In the large building of the Law Courts, during a break in the Melvinsky case session, the members and the prosecutor gathered in the office of Ivan Yegorovich Shebek, and the conversation turned to the famous Krasovsky case. Fyodor Vasilyevich grew heated, arguing about the lack of jurisdiction, Ivan Yegorovich stood his ground, while Pyotr Ivanovich, having initially remained aloof from the dispute, took no part in it and was merely glancing through the just-delivered Gazette.
“Gentlemen!” he said, “Ivan Ilyich is dead.”
“Is that so?”
“Here, read for yourselves,” he said to Fyodor Vasilyevich, handing him the fresh, still-fragrant copy.
Enclosed in a black border was the following announcement: “Praskovya Fyodorovna Golovina, with profound sorrow, announces to relatives and acquaintances the passing of her beloved husband, Ivan Ilyich Golovin, Member of the Court of Justice, which occurred on February 4th of this year, 1882. The funeral procession will leave the house on Friday at one o’clock in the afternoon.”
Ivan Ilyich was a colleague of the gentlemen assembled, and they all held him in affection. He had been ill for several weeks; it was said that his illness was incurable. The position remained his, but it had been considered that in the event of his death, Alexeyev might be appointed to his place, and to Alexeyev’s place—either Vinnikov or Shtabel. Thus, upon hearing of Ivan Ilyich’s death, the first thought of each gentleman gathered in the office was of the significance this death might have for the transfers or promotions of the members themselves or their acquaintances.
“Now I’m sure to get Shtabel’s or Vinnikov’s place,” thought Fyodor Vasilyevich. “That’s been promised to me for a long time, and that promotion means an extra eight hundred rubles for me, besides the office fees.”
“I must ask for my brother-in-law to be transferred from Kaluga now,” thought Pyotr Ivanovich. “My wife will be very pleased. Now I won’t be able to be told that I never did anything for her relatives.”
“I thought he wouldn’t recover,” Pyotr Ivanovich said aloud. “It’s a pity.”
“But what exactly was wrong with him?”
“The doctors couldn’t agree. That is, they diagnosed it, but differently. The last time I saw him, I thought he looked better.”
“And I haven’t been to see him since the holidays. I kept meaning to go.”
“Did he have any property?”
“I believe his wife had something, but something very modest.”
“Well, I suppose one must go. They lived terribly far away.”
“That is, far from you. Everything is far from you.”
“There, he can’t forgive me for living across the river,” Pyotr Ivanovich said, smiling at Shebek. And they started talking about the vastness of city distances, and then went off to the session.
Besides the considerations of transfers and possible changes in service that this death evoked in everyone, the very fact of a close acquaintance’s death evoked in all who heard of it, as always, a feeling of joy that it was he who had died, and not I.
“He’s dead; but here I am, not dead,” thought or felt everyone. Ivan Ilyich’s close acquaintances, his so-called friends, also involuntarily thought that they now had to perform the very tedious duties of propriety and go to the funeral service and to the widow with a visit of condolence.
Fyodor Vasilyevich and Pyotr Ivanovich were the closest.
Pyotr Ivanovich was a schoolmate from the School of Jurisprudence and considered himself indebted to Ivan Ilyich.
After relaying the news of Ivan Ilyich’s death to his wife during dinner and discussing the possibility of having her brother transferred to their district, Pyotr Ivanovich, without taking a rest, put on his frock coat and drove to Ivan Ilyich’s apartment.
At the entrance to Ivan Ilyich’s apartment, a carriage and two cabmen were waiting. Downstairs, in the entrance hall near the coat rack, a glaze-covered coffin lid with tassels and polished gold braid was propped against the wall. Two ladies in black were taking off their fur coats. One, Ivan Ilyich’s sister, was an acquaintance; the other lady was a stranger. Pyotr Ivanovich’s colleague, Schwartz, was coming down from upstairs and, seeing Pyotr Ivanovich enter from the top step, stopped and winked at him, as if to say: “Ivan Ilyich managed things foolishly; we know better.”
Schwartz’s face, with its English whiskers, and his whole thin figure in a frock coat, had, as always, an elegant solemnity, and this solemnity, which always contradicted Schwartz’s playful nature, had a peculiar piquancy here. This is what Pyotr Ivanovich thought.
Pyotr Ivanovich let the ladies go ahead of him and slowly followed them up the stairs. Schwartz did not descend further but stopped at the top. Pyotr Ivanovich understood why: he clearly wanted to arrange a game of preference for that evening. The ladies proceeded up the stairs towards the widow’s apartment, while Schwartz, with his lips set seriously and tightly, and a playful glance, indicated with a movement of his eyebrows to the right, toward the room of the deceased.
Pyotr Ivanovich entered, as is always the case, with uncertainty about what he was supposed to do there. He knew one thing: crossing oneself never hurt in such situations. He was not entirely sure whether one should bow as well, so he chose a middle course: upon entering the room, he began to cross himself and, as it were, slightly to bow. As far as the movements of his hands and head allowed, he simultaneously surveyed the room. Two young men, one a student, presumably nephews, were leaving the room, crossing themselves. An old woman stood motionless. And the lady with strangely raised eyebrows was whispering something to her. A deacon in a surcoat, brisk and resolute, was reading something loudly with an expression that precluded any contradiction; Gerasim, the butler’s peasant-assistant, passed in front of Pyotr Ivanovich with light steps, sprinkling something on the floor. Seeing this, Pyotr Ivanovich immediately caught a faint odor of a decomposing corpse. During his last visit to Ivan Ilyich, Pyotr Ivanovich had seen this peasant in the study; he was acting as a nurse, and Ivan Ilyich was particularly fond of him. Pyotr Ivanovich continued to cross himself and slightly bow, taking a middle course between the coffin, the deacon, and the icons on the table in the corner. Then, when this act of crossing himself seemed too prolonged, he paused and began to examine the deceased.
The deceased lay, as dead men always lie, especially heavily, corpse-like, having sunk his stiffened limbs into the coffin lining, with his head permanently inclined onto the pillow, and displaying, as dead men always do, his yellow waxy forehead with a receding hairline on his sunken temples and a prominent nose, as if pressing down on the upper lip. He had changed greatly, grown thinner since Pyotr Ivanovich had last seen him, but, like all dead men, his face was more beautiful, and above all, more significant than it had been when he was alive. There was an expression on the face that what needed to be done had been done, and done rightly. Besides this, there was also a reproach or a reminder to the living in that expression. This reminder seemed inappropriate to Pyotr Ivanovich or, at least, not concerning him. Something became unpleasant for him, and so Pyotr Ivanovich crossed himself hastily once more and, as it seemed to him, too quickly, not in keeping with the proprieties, turned around and went toward the door. Schwartz was waiting for him in the adjoining room, standing with his feet wide apart and playing with his top hat with both hands behind his back. One look at the playful, neat, and elegant figure of Schwartz refreshed Pyotr Ivanovich. Pyotr Ivanovich understood that Schwartz was above this and did not succumb to depressing impressions. His appearance alone seemed to say: the incident of Ivan Ilyich’s funeral service cannot be a sufficient reason to consider the order of the session disturbed, that is, that nothing should prevent us from opening a pack of cards tonight, while the footman sets out four unlit candles; in general, there is no reason to suppose that this incident could prevent us from spending a pleasant evening today. He whispered this to Pyotr Ivanovich as he passed, proposing that they meet for a game at Fyodor Vasilyevich’s. But it seemed it was not Pyotr Ivanovich’s fate to play preference that evening. Praskovya Fyodorovna, a short, stout woman, who, despite all her efforts to appear otherwise, was widening from the shoulders downwards, all in black, with a lace-covered head and the same strangely raised eyebrows as the lady who had stood facing the coffin, emerged from her private rooms with other ladies and, having shown them to the door of the deceased’s room, said:
“The funeral service is about to begin; please go in.”
Schwartz, bowing vaguely, stopped, clearly neither accepting nor declining the offer. Praskovya Fyodorovna, recognizing Pyotr Ivanovich, sighed, approached him closely, took his hand, and said:
“I know that you were Ivan Ilyich’s true friend…” — and looked at him, awaiting actions corresponding to these words.
Pyotr Ivanovich knew that just as he had needed to cross himself there, here he needed to shake her hand, sigh, and say: “Believe me!” And he did so. And having done it, he felt that the desired result had been achieved: that he was touched, and she was touched.
“Come, before it begins; I need to speak with you,” said the widow. “Give me your hand.”
Pyotr Ivanovich offered his hand, and they proceeded to the inner rooms, past Schwartz, who sadly winked at Pyotr Ivanovich: “So much for preference! Don’t blame me, we’ll take another partner. Unless it’s five-handed, when you’re finished,” said his playful glance.
Pyotr Ivanovich sighed even more deeply and sadly, and Praskovya Fyodorovna squeezed his hand gratefully. Entering her drawing-room, upholstered in pink cretonne with a dim lamp, they sat down by the table: she on the sofa, and Pyotr Ivanovich on a low pouffe whose springs were broken and gave way unevenly under his weight. Praskovya Fyodorovna had intended to warn him to sit on another chair but decided this warning was not appropriate for her situation and changed her mind. As he sat on this pouffe, Pyotr Ivanovich recalled how Ivan Ilyich had arranged this drawing-room and consulted him about this very pink cretonne with green leaves. As she sat on the sofa and passed the table (in general, the whole drawing-room was full of knick-knacks and furniture), the widow caught the black lace of her black mantilla on the carving of the table. Pyotr Ivanovich rose to free it, and the pouffe, relieved of his weight, began to wobble and push him. The widow herself began to unhook her lace, and Pyotr Ivanovich sat down again, suppressing the rebellious pouffe beneath him. But the widow had not completely freed it, and Pyotr Ivanovich rose again, and again the pouffe rebelled and even snapped. When all this was over, she took out a clean cambric handkerchief and began to weep. Pyotr Ivanovich, however, was cooled by the episode with the lace and the struggle with the pouffe, and he sat frowning. This awkward situation was interrupted by Sokolov, Ivan Ilyich’s butler, who announced that the grave plot that Praskovya Fyodorovna had designated would cost two hundred rubles. She stopped weeping and, looking at Pyotr Ivanovich with the air of a victim, said in French that it was very difficult for her. Pyotr Ivanovich made a silent gesture that expressed his unquestionable certainty that this could not be otherwise.
“Please smoke,” she said in a generous yet heartbroken voice, and occupied herself with Sokolov about the price of the plot. Pyotr Ivanovich, lighting his cigarette, heard her inquire very meticulously about the different prices of land and determine the one that should be chosen. Furthermore, having settled the matter of the plot, she also gave instructions about the choir singers. Sokolov left.
“I have to do everything myself,” she said to Pyotr Ivanovich, pushing the albums on the table aside; and noticing that the ash threatened the table, she promptly moved an ashtray toward Pyotr Ivanovich and said: “I find it hypocritical to pretend that grief prevents me from attending to practical matters. On the contrary, if anything can not console me… but distract me, it is the concern for him.” She took out her handkerchief again, as if preparing to weep, and suddenly, as if overcoming herself, she shook her head and began to speak calmly:
“However, I have some business with you.”
Pyotr Ivanovich bowed, taking care not to let the pouffe’s springs, which had immediately stirred beneath him, expand.
“In his last days, he suffered terribly.”
“Did he suffer much?” asked Pyotr Ivanovich.
“Oh, terribly! For the last, not minutes, but hours, he screamed continuously. For three days running, he screamed without a pause. It was unbearable. I cannot understand how I endured it; it could be heard through three doors. Oh! what I went through!”
“And was he really conscious?” asked Pyotr Ivanovich.
“Yes,” she whispered, “to the very last minute. He took leave of us a quarter of an hour before he died and even asked for Volodya to be taken away.”
The thought of the suffering of the man he had known so closely, first as a cheerful boy, a schoolmate, then as an adult colleague, suddenly appalled Pyotr Ivanovich, despite the unpleasant awareness of his own and this woman’s pretense. He saw again that forehead, the nose pressing down on the lip, and he became terrified for himself.
“Three days of terrible suffering and death. This could happen to me right now, any minute,” he thought, and for a moment he was terrified. But immediately, he himself didn’t know how, the usual thought came to his aid: that this had happened to Ivan Ilyich, and not to him, and that it should not and could not happen to him; that in thinking thus, he was giving in to a gloomy mood, which one should not do, as was clearly evident from Schwartz’s face. And having made this reasoning, Pyotr Ivanovich calmed down and began to inquire with interest about the details of Ivan Ilyich’s death, as if death were an adventure peculiar only to Ivan Ilyich, and not at all peculiar to himself.
After various conversations about the details of the truly terrible physical suffering that Ivan Ilyich had endured (Pyotr Ivanovich learned these details only by how Ivan Ilyich’s torments affected Praskovya Fyodorovna’s nerves), the widow clearly felt it necessary to move on to business.
“Oh, Pyotr Ivanovich, how difficult, how terribly difficult, how terribly difficult,” and she began to weep again.
Pyotr Ivanovich sighed and waited for her to blow her nose. When she had blown her nose, he said:
“Believe me…” — and she started talking again and expressed what was obviously her main business with him; this business consisted of questions about how to obtain money from the treasury due to her husband’s death. She pretended to be asking Pyotr Ivanovich’s advice about the pension, but he saw that she already knew, down to the smallest detail, things he didn’t know: everything that could be extracted from the treasury on account of this death; but what she wanted to know was whether it might be possible to extract even more money somehow. Pyotr Ivanovich tried to invent such a means but, after thinking for a while and conventionally scolding our government for its stinginess, said that it seemed nothing more could be done. Then she sighed and clearly began to devise a means of getting rid of her visitor. He understood this, extinguished his cigarette, stood up, shook her hand, and went to the entrance hall.
In the dining room, where there was a clock that Ivan Ilyich had been so pleased to buy at a bric-à-brac shop, Pyotr Ivanovich met the priest and several other acquaintances who had come for the funeral service, and he saw Ivan Ilyich’s beautiful daughter, whom he knew. She was all in black. Her waist, very slender, seemed even thinner. She had a somber, resolute, almost angry look. She bowed to Pyotr Ivanovich as if he were somehow to blame. Behind the daughter stood a wealthy young man, a court investigator, whom Pyotr Ivanovich knew, and who was her fiancé, he had heard, with an equally offended look. Pyotr Ivanovich bowed sadly to them and was about to go into the room of the deceased when the figure of the grammar school student-son, who was terribly like Ivan Ilyich, appeared from under the stairs. This was a small Ivan Ilyich, just as Pyotr Ivanovich remembered him at the School of Jurisprudence. His eyes were tear-stained and the kind found on unwashed boys of thirteen or fourteen. The boy, seeing Pyotr Ivanovich, began to frown sternly and shyly. Pyotr Ivanovich nodded to him and entered the room of the deceased. The funeral service began—candles, moans, incense, tears, sobs. Pyotr Ivanovich stood frowning, looking at his own feet. He did not look at the deceased once and did not succumb to the weakening influences until the end, and was one of the first to leave. The entrance hall was empty. Gerasim, the peasant-assistant, darted out of the deceased’s room, vigorously tossed all the fur coats with his strong hands to find Pyotr Ivanovich’s coat, and handed it to him.
“Well, Gerasim, my friend?” said Pyotr Ivanovich, just to say something. “Is it sad?”
“It is God’s will. We shall all be there someday,” said Gerasim, showing his white, even peasant teeth, and, like a man in the midst of strenuous work, he quickly opened the door, called the coachman, helped Pyotr Ivanovich into the carriage, and jumped back to the porch, as if pondering what else he could do.
Pyotr Ivanovich found it especially pleasant to breathe the fresh air after the smell of incense, the corpse, and carbolic acid.
“Where should I take you?” asked the coachman.
“It’s not late. I’ll stop by Fyodor Vasilyevich’s.”
And Pyotr Ivanovich drove off. And indeed, he found them at the end of the first rubber, so it was convenient for him to join them as the fifth player.
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