by Leo Tolstoy
And, lo and behold, this journey undertaken by Ivan Ilyich was crowned with extraordinary, unexpected success. At Kursk an acquaintance of his, F. S. Ilyin, joined him in his first-class carriage, and told him about a telegram received by the governor of Kursk with the white-hot news that in a few days there would be a shake-up in the ministry, and Piotr Ivanovich’s place would be assigned to Ivan Simyonovich.
Apart from its importance for Russia, the predicted reshuffle18 was particularly important for Ivan Ilyich, because it would bring into play a new figure, Piotr Petrovich, and, self-evidently, his friend Zakhar Ivanovich—and this was particularly favorable to Ivan Ilyich’s own interests. Zakhar Ivanovich was an old friend and colleague of Ivan Ilyich.
The news was confirmed in Moscow. And when he reached Petersburg, Ivan Ilyich found Zakhar Ivanovich and was definitely promised a post in his old department, the Ministry of Justice.
A week later he telegraphed his wife: “Zakhar in Miller’s place; my appointment follows first report.”
Thanks to this change of personnel Ivan Ilyich unexpectedly obtained a grading in his previous ministry that set him two grades above his colleagues, with a salary of five thousand rubles, plus three thousand five hundred in removal allowances. All his resentment against his former enemies and the whole ministry was forgotten, and Ivan Ilyich was completely happy.
He returned to the country a cheerful and contented man, such as he had not been for a very long time. Praskovya Feodorovna also cheered up, and a truce was reached between them. Ivan Ilyich told how he was feted in Petersburg, how all those who had been his enemies had been put to shame and were fawning on him now, how everyone envied him for his new position, and, especially, he told them how everyone loved him in Petersburg.
Praskovya Feodorovna listened and pretended to believe it all, not contradicting him in anything, simply planning a new way of life in the town where they were going. And Ivan Ilyich saw with pleasure that her plans were his plans, that their interests coincided, and that his life, after a minor hiccup, was reverting to its due and proper character of cheerful pleasure and propriety.
Ivan Ilyich returned for only a short while. He had to take up his job on the tenth of September, and, besides, he needed time to settle into the new posting, move his belongings from the provinces, and in addition order and buy many new things—in a word, to set himself up in exactly the way he had himself decided, and almost exactly the same way as Praskovya Feodorovna had decided.
And now that everything was settled so well, he and his wife saw eye to eye. Apart from that, they spent little time together, and were more amiably inclined to each other than they had been since the first years of their married life. Ivan Ilyich thought he would take his family with him straight away, but the persuasions of his sister and her husband,19 who had suddenly become particularly loving and familial toward him, resulted in his setting off alone.
Ivan Ilyich left, and the cheerful state of mind brought about by his success and the harmony with his wife, the one intensifying the other, continued to stay with him. An excellent set of apartments was found, exactly what both husband and wife had dreamed of. Spacious, high-ceilinged reception rooms in the old style, a comfortably imposing study, rooms for his wife and daughter, a schoolroom for his son—everything seemed made on purpose, just for them. Ivan Ilyich oversaw everything himself: he chose the wallpaper, bought more furniture, with a particular bent for old pieces, which he thought comme il faut, had them upholstered, and everything grew and grew, steadily approaching the ideal he set himself. When he had done only half of what he intended, the results far exceeded his expectations. He could already see that comme il faut elegance, that freedom from vulgarity everything would have when it was complete. Falling asleep, he imagined the reception room as it would become. Looking into the still-unfinished sitting room, he envisaged the fireplace, the fire screen, the étagère,20 the occasional chairs, the dishes and plates displayed on the walls, the bronzes, when they would all be assembled in their place. The thought of how he would amaze Pasha and Lizanka,21 who also had taste in these matters, made him glad. They can’t possibly expect all this. Above all, he managed to find old furniture and buy it cheap, which gave everything a distinctly aristocratic flavor. In his letters he purposely described things worse than they were, in order to surprise them. It all absorbed him so much that his new job preoccupied him less than he expected, even though he liked that kind of work. When the court was in session he had moments of inattention; he would be pondering what kind of valances to have over the curtains, straight or curved. He was so taken up with it all that he often did things himself, moving the furniture and rehanging the curtains on his own. Once he climbed a small ladder to show the obtuse decorator how he wanted the fabric to be draped, missed his footing, and fell, but, being a strong and agile man, saved himself, only hitting his side against the handle of the window. The knock hurt for a little but soon passed off. Throughout this period Ivan Ilyich felt particularly well and cheerful. He wrote, “I feel as though fifteen years have simply slipped off me.” He thought he would finish by September, but the work dragged on till mid-October. But then it looked delightful—not only he said so, but everyone who saw it said so to him.
In fact, however, the effect was the same as in the homes of all those people who are not quite rich enough, who want to look like the rich, and consequently look only like each other: damasks, mahogany, flowers, carpets and bronzes, dark woodstain and high polish—everything that people of a certain kind do to be like all other people of that certain kind. What he had was so similar to the norm that it did not even strike you, but to him everything seemed in some way extraordinary. When he met his family at the railway station and brought them to his completed, brightly lit apartments and a footman with a white tie opened the door to the flower-filled hall, and then they entered the reception room and the study, gasping with delight—he was very happy, leading them everywhere, drinking in their praise and beaming with pleasure. As they were taking tea the same evening, when Praskovya Feodorovna asked him, by the way, how did he come to fall, he laughed and showed them how he went flying and frightened the decorator.
“It’s lucky I’m no mean gymnast. Another man would have killed himself, but I barely grazed myself, just here. It hurts when you touch it, but it’s better already; it’s just a bruise.”
And they began living in their new home, where, as always, when you’ve settled in nicely, you find it’s just one room too few; and living on their new income, which, as always, was just a tiny bit short—some five hundred rubles or so—and it was all very nice. The first period was particularly nice, when not everything had been done and there were still things to do: to buy one thing and order another, to shift this and adjust that. Although there were some differences of opinion between husband and wife, they were both so contented and there was so much to do that everything ended without major quarrels. When there was nothing left to arrange, it got a little boring and something seemed missing, but at this point they began acquiring new friends and habits and their life grew full.
Ivan Ilyich used to spend the mornings in court, returning home for dinner, and at first his humor was good, even though it was threatened precisely by his new home. (Every stain on the tablecloths and damasks, every broken blind cord irritated him: he had invested so much effort in getting things right that any flaw pained him.) But in general Ivan Ilyich’s life continued in the way he thought his life should be—light, pleasant, and proper. He got up at nine, had some coffee, read the paper, then put on his uniform and drove off to the law courts. His working harness there had long been worn into shape and fitted him comfortably. Petitioners, office inquiries, the office itself, preliminary hearings in camera, public sessions. In all this one had to know how to exclude all the raw, living matter that invariably clogs the smooth running of official business. One had to guard against any relationship beyond the professional, the motive for human contact had to be exclusively
professional and the contact itself had to remain exclusively professional. For instance, someone comes wanting some information. Not being officially responsible, Ivan Ilyich can have no contact with such a man—but if he has some official link with this person, something that can be identified on an officially headed sheet of paper, then, within the limits of this relationship Ivan Ilyich does everything, literally everything, that can be done, and moreover maintains a semblance of friendly human dealing—that is, of civility toward him. As soon as the official relationship is ended, so is everything else. Ivan Ilyich was a past master at this art of isolating his professional life, not allowing it to mix with his real life. With long practice and skill he had perfected it to such a degree that, like a virtuoso, he sometimes even allowed himself to mingle his private with his professional dealings—in jest, as it were. He allowed himself this because he felt he always had the power, when necessary, to fillet out the professional contact and jettison the human relationship. Ivan Ilyich managed this not merely lightly, pleasantly, and properly but with a virtuoso’s skill. And in the idle intervals, he smoked, drank tea, discussed politics a little, general affairs a little, cards a little, and people’s appointments most of all. And then, tired but with the feeling of a virtuoso who has duly played his part as one of the first violinists in the orchestra, he returned home. At home his daughter and wife had been out visiting somewhere or had been receiving visitors; his son had been to school and was doing his homework with his tutors, diligently learning the things that school makes one learn. Everything was well. After dinner, if there were no guests, Ivan Ilyich sometimes read a book that was in vogue, and in the evening sat down to work, that is, he read his papers, kept up with legislation, compared testimonies and sorted them under the appropriate laws. He found this neither dull nor engaging. It was dull when there was an opportunity to play cards, but if there were no card parties then it was at least better than sitting on his own or with his wife. Ivan Ilyich’s pleasure lay in small dinner parties to which he invited socially prestigious men and women, passing the time with them in just the way that all such people pass their time, in a dining room that was just like all other dining rooms.
Once they even had a soirée and there was dancing. Ivan Ilyich enjoyed himself and everything went well, except that he had a big quarrel with his wife about the cakes and sweets: Praskovya Feodorovna had her own plans, but Ivan Ilyich insisted they should come from an expensive confectioner and ordered a lot of cakes and the quarrel was about the leftover cakes and the confectioner’s bill, which came to forty-five rubles. It was a big quarrel and an unpleasant one, so much so that Praskovya Feodorovna called him “idiot, stupid moaner.” And he tugged at his hair and angrily spoke of divorce. But the evening itself was very pleasant. The best people were there, and Ivan Ilyich danced with Princess Trufonov, the sister of the one well known for founding “Bear My Burden.”22 His professional pleasures were the pleasures of self-esteem, his social pleasures were the pleasures of vanity, but Ivan Ilyich’s real pleasure was the pleasure of playing vint.23 He used to admit that after everything, after whatever unpleasantnesses might have happened during his day, the one pleasure that shone like a candle, brighter than all others, was the prospect of sitting down with good players, poker-faced partners, to play vint, in a party of four of course (it’s really unpleasant sitting out if there are five of you, even if you pretend oh, I love it), and to have an intelligent, serious game (when the cards are right), and then supper and a glass of wine. And after a game of vint, especially with small winnings (large ones were disagreeable), Ivan Ilyich went to bed in a particularly good humor.
So they lived. The very best people made up their circle, important people visited them, and young people, too.
Husband, wife, and daughter were entirely united about their circle and, without consulting each other, brushed off the ingratiating, shabbier friends and relatives that fluttered into their bright reception room hung with Japanese china. Soon the shabby friends stopped fluttering about and only the very best company remained at the Golovins. The young people paid court to Lizanka, and Petrishev, an examining magistrate, the son of Dmitri Ivanovich Petrishev and his only heir, began to pay such serious attention to her that Ivan Ilyich even began discussing it with Praskovya Feodorovna: should they not take them out for a troika ride or a trip to the theater? So they lived. And everything went on as usual and it was all very nice.
4
Everyone was well. You could hardly call it illness when Ivan Ilyich occasionally complained of a strange taste in his mouth and something that felt not quite right on the left side of his stomach.
But the mild discomfort began to increase, turning into something that was not yet quite a pain but an awareness of a permanent heaviness in his side and a poor state of mind. This poor state of mind grew stronger and stronger, beginning to spoil the light, pleasant, and proper way of life just established in the Golovin household. Husband and wife began quarreling more and more often, and soon the lightness and pleasantness of their life fell away and even propriety was barely maintained. Once again the arguments grew frequent. Once again only a few islands remained, and not many of those either, where husband and wife could still come to terms without an explosion.
And now Praskovya Feodorovna could say with some justification that her husband had a difficult character. With habitual exaggeration she maintained that he’d always had a horrible temper and she certainly needed her sweet nature to put up with it for twenty years. The truth was that now he started the quarrels. He always began carping just before dinner, often exactly when he started eating, during the soup course. He would notice a chipped dish, or something wrong with the food, or his son putting his elbows on the table, or his daughter’s hairstyle. And he blamed Praskovya Feodorovna for everything. At first she objected and said unkind things back, but once or twice he became so enraged as dinner began, she realized it must be a constitutional disorder prompted by food and restrained herself, not answering back but only hurrying to get through the meal. Praskovya Feodorovna considered her self-restraint remarkably virtuous. Having decided her husband’s appalling character made her life a misery, she grew sorry for herself. And the more she pitied herself, the more she loathed her husband. She started wishing he would die, but could not wish for that because then there would be no salary. And that made him even more irritating. She thought she was dreadfully unfortunate precisely because even his death could not save her. She was irritable, she concealed her irritation, and her hidden irritation aggravated his irritation.
After one scene when Ivan Ilyich was particularly unfair, he admitted in the subsequent explanations that he certainly was irritable but that was because of his illness. She told him that if he was ill then he should get treatment and insisted on his going to see an eminent doctor.
He went. Everything was as he expected; everything was done in the way it is always done. The waiting, and the pomp on entry, a charade played out by the doctor and familiar to him because it was the same as he recognized in himself in court, the tapping, and the listening, the questions requiring preordained and self-evidently futile replies, and the meaningful look which proclaimed, come, come sir, just rely on us and we’ll sort it all out—we know perfectly well how to settle matters, one way will do for all, whoever they may be. It was all exactly as it was in court. Just as he put on a show in court for the man on trial, so the doctor put on a show for him.
The doctor said that such and such indicates that you have this and that inside, but if this isn’t confirmed by the analysis of so-and-so and so-and-so, then we must assume you to have such and such and this and that. If, however, we assume so-and-so then . . . and so on. For Ivan Ilyich only one question was important: was his condition dangerous or not? But the doctor ignored this irrelevant question. From the doctor’s point of view it was an idle speculation not requiring resolution: the only thing was to weigh up the probabilities of a floating kidney, chronic catarrh, or a disease o
f the blind gut.24 It was not Ivan Ilyich’s life that was in question, but the rival merits of the floating kidney and blind gut. And under Ivan Ilyich’s eyes the doctor brilliantly found in favor of the floating kidney, with the one reservation that the investigation of the urine might provide new evidence, which would justify reassessment. All this was exactly what Ivan Ilyich had done himself a thousand times, dealing with defendants in this dazzling manner. The doctor made his summing-up just as brilliantly, looking over his spectacles triumphantly and even gaily at the accused. From the doctor’s summing-up Ivan Ilyich drew the conclusion that things were bad. For the doctor and quite probably for everyone, it didn’t matter a damn, but for him it was bad. And this conclusion struck Ivan Ilyich painfully, arousing in him a feeling of intense pity for himself and great bitterness against the doctor, who was so indifferent to a question of such importance.
But he said nothing, stood up, put his money on the desk, and said with a sigh, “I imagine we sick people often ask you irrelevant questions. . . . By and large, is it a dangerous illness or not?”
With one eye the doctor looked at him sternly through his spectacles, as though to say: prisoner in the dock, if you do not confine yourself to the questions put to you, I will be obliged to require your removal from the court.
“I have already told you what I deem necessary and appropriate,” said the doctor. “Further evidence will come from the analysis.” And the doctor bowed.
Ivan Ilyich went out slowly, drearily took his place in the sleigh, and drove home. For the entire journey he went over everything the doctor had said, incessantly trying to translate all those tangled, obscure technical terms into plain language and to decipher from them the answer to his question: it is bad—but is it very bad for me or not so bad yet? And it seemed to him that the implication of everything the doctor had said was that it was very bad. Everything in the streets seemed sad to Ivan Ilyich. The coachmen were sad, the houses were sad, the passersby and the shops were sad. And that dull, gnawing pain that never eased seemed to take on a different, more serious significance from the doctor’s obscure pronouncements. Ivan Ilyich attended to it with a new feeling of heaviness.
