The Death of Ivan Ilych

by Leo Tolstoy

  THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH

  By Lev Nikolayevich Tolstoy

  1886

  Translated by Louise and Aylmer Maude

  Distributed by the Tolstoy Library

  https://home.aol.com/Tolstoy28

  email: Tolstoy28@aol.com

 

  I

  During an interval in the Melvinski trial in the large

  building of the Law Courts the members and public prosecutor met in

  Ivan Egorovich Shebek's private room, where the conversation turned

  on the celebrated Krasovski case. Fedor Vasilievich warmly

  maintained that it was not subject to their jurisdiction, Ivan

  Egorovich maintained the contrary, while Peter Ivanovich, not

  having entered into the discussion at the start, took no part in it

  but looked through the *Gazette* which had just been handed in.

  "Gentlemen," he said, "Ivan Ilych has died!"

  "You don't say so!"

  "Here, read it yourself," replied Peter Ivanovich, handing

  Fedor Vasilievich the paper still damp from the press. Surrounded

  by a black border were the words: "Praskovya Fedorovna Golovina,

  with profound sorrow, informs relatives and friends of the demise

  of her beloved husband Ivan Ilych Golovin, Member of the Court of

  Justice, which occurred on February the 4th of this year 1882. the

  funeral will take place on Friday at one o'clock in the afternoon."

  Ivan Ilych had been a colleague of the gentlemen present and

  was liked by them all. He had been ill for some weeks with an

  illness said to be incurable. His post had been kept open for him,

  but there had been conjectures that in case of his death Alexeev

  might receive his appointment, and that either Vinnikov or Shtabel

  would succeed Alexeev. So on receiving the news of Ivan Ilych's

  death the first thought of each of the gentlemen in that private

  room was of the changes and promotions it might occasion among

  themselves or their acquaintances.

  "I shall be sure to get Shtabel's place or Vinnikov's,"

  thought Fedor Vasilievich. "I was promised that long ago, and the

  promotion means an extra eight hundred rubles a year for me besides

  the allowance."

  "Now I must apply for my brother-in-law's transfer from

  Kaluga," thought Peter Ivanovich. "My wife will be very glad, and

  then she won't be able to say that I never do anything for her

  relations."

  "I thought he would never leave his bed again," said Peter

  Ivanovich aloud. "It's very sad."

  "But what really was the matter with him?"

  "The doctors couldn't say -- at least they could, but each of

  them said something different. When last I saw him I though he was

  getting better."

  "And I haven't been to see him since the holidays. I always

  meant to go."

  "Had he any property?"

  "I think his wife had a little -- but something quiet

  trifling."

  "We shall have to go to see her, but they live so terribly far

  away."

  "Far away from you, you mean. Everything's far away from your

  place."

  "You see, he never can forgive my living on the other side of

  the river," said Peter Ivanovich, smiling at Shebek. Then, still

  talking of the distances between different parts of the city, they

  returned to the Court.

  Besides considerations as to the possible transfers and

  promotions likely to result from Ivan Ilych's death, the mere fact

  of the death of a near acquaintance aroused, as usual, in all who

  heard of it the complacent feeling that, "it is he who is dead and

  not I."

  Each one thought or felt, "Well, he's dead but I'm alive!"

  But the more intimate of Ivan Ilych's acquaintances, his so-called

  friends, could not help thinking also that they would now have to

  fulfil the very tiresome demands of propriety by attending the

  funeral service and paying a visit of condolence to the widow.

  Fedor Vasilievich and Peter Ivanovich had been his nearest

  acquaintances. Peter Ivanovich had studied law with Ivan Ilych and

  had considered himself to be under obligations to him.

  Having told his wife at dinner-time of Ivan Ilych's death, and

  of his conjecture that it might be possible to get her brother

  transferred to their circuit, Peter Ivanovich sacrificed his usual

  nap, put on his evening clothes and drove to Ivan Ilych's house.

  At the entrance stood a carriage and two cabs. Leaning

  against the wall in the hall downstairs near the cloakstand was a

  coffin-lid covered with cloth of gold, ornamented with gold cord

  and tassels, that had been polished up with metal powder. Two

  ladies in black were taking off their fur cloaks. Peter Ivanovich

  recognized one of them as Ivan Ilych's sister, but the other was a

  stranger to him. His colleague Schwartz was just coming

  downstairs, but on seeing Peter Ivanovich enter he stopped and

  winked at him, as if to say: "Ivan Ilych has made a mess of things

  -- not like you and me."

  Schwartz's face with his Piccadilly whiskers, and his slim

  figure in evening dress, had as usual an air of elegant solemnity

  which contrasted with the playfulness of his character and had a

  special piquancy here, or so it seemed to Peter Ivanovich.

  Peter Ivanovich allowed the ladies to precede him and slowly

  followed them upstairs. Schwartz did not come down but remained

  where he was, and Peter Ivanovich understood that he wanted to

  arrange where they should play bridge that evening. The ladies

  went upstairs to the widow's room, and Schwartz with seriously

  compressed lips but a playful looking his eyes, indicated by a

  twist of his eyebrows the room to the right where the body lay.

  Peter Ivanovich, like everyone else on such occasions, entered

  feeling uncertain what he would have to do. All he knew was that

  at such times it is always safe to cross oneself. But he was not

  quite sure whether one should make obseisances while doing so. He

  therefore adopted a middle course. On entering the room he began

  crossing himself and made a slight movement resembling a bow. At

  the same time, as far as the motion of his head and arm allowed, he

  surveyed the room. Two young men -- apparently nephews, one of

  whom was a high-school pupil -- were leaving the room, crossing

  themselves as they did so. An old woman was standing motionless,

  and a lady with strangely arched eyebrows was saying something to

  her in a whisper. A vigorous, resolute Church Reader, in a frock-

  coat, was reading something in a loud voice with an expression that

  precluded any contradiction. The butler's assistant, Gerasim,

  stepping lightly in
front of Peter Ivanovich, was strewing

  something on the floor. Noticing this, Peter Ivanovich was

  immediately aware of a faint odour of a decomposing body.

  The last time he had called on Ivan Ilych, Peter Ivanovich had

  seen Gerasim in the study. Ivan Ilych had been particularly fond of

  him and he was performing the duty of a sick nurse.

  Peter Ivanovich continued to make the sign of the cross

  slightly inclining his head in an intermediate direction between

  the coffin, the Reader, and the icons on the table in a corner of

  the room. Afterwards, when it seemed to him that this movement of

  his arm in crossing himself had gone on too long, he stopped and

  began to look at the corpse.

  The dead man lay, as dead men always lie, in a specially heavy

  way, his rigid limbs sunk in the soft cushions of the coffin, with

  the head forever bowed on the pillow. His yellow waxen brow with

  bald patches over his sunken temples was thrust up in the way

  peculiar to the dead, the protruding nose seeming to press on the

  upper lip. He was much changed and grown even thinner since Peter

  Ivanovich had last seen him, but, as is always the case with the

  dead, his face was handsomer and above all more dignified than when

  he was alive. the expression on the face said that what was

  necessary had been accomplished, and accomplished rightly. Besides

  this there was in that expression a reproach and a warning to the

  living. This warning seemed to Peter Ivanovich out of place, or at

  least not applicable to him. He felt a certain discomfort and so

  he hurriedly crossed himself once more and turned and went out of

  the door -- too hurriedly and too regardless of propriety, as he

  himself was aware.

  Schwartz was waiting for him in the adjoining room with legs

  spread wide apart and both hands toying with his top-hat behind his

  back. The mere sight of that playful, well-groomed, and elegant

  figure refreshed Peter Ivanovich. He felt that Schwartz was above

  all these happenings and would not surrender to any depressing

  influences. His very look said that this incident of a church

  service for Ivan Ilych could not be a sufficient reason for

  infringing the order of the session -- in other words, that it

  would certainly not prevent his unwrapping a new pack of cards and

  shuffling them that evening while a footman placed fresh candles on

  the table: in fact, that there was no reason for supposing that

  this incident would hinder their spending the evening agreeably.

  Indeed he said this in a whisper as Peter Ivanovich passed him,

  proposing that they should meet for a game at Fedor Vasilievich's.

  But apparently Peter Ivanovich was not destined to play bridge that

  evening. Praskovya Fedorovna (a short, fat woman who despite all

  efforts to the contrary had continued to broaden steadily from her

  shoulders downwards and who had the same extraordinarily arched

  eyebrows as the lady who had been standing by the coffin), dressed

  all in black, her head covered with lace, came out of her own room

  with some other ladies, conducted them to the room where the dead

  body lay, and said: "The service will begin immediately. Please

  go in."

  Schwartz, making an indefinite bow, stood still, evidently

  neither accepting nor declining this invitation. Praskovya

  Fedorovna recognizing Peter Ivanovich, sighed, went close up to

  him, took his hand, and said: "I know you were a true friend to

  Ivan Ilych..." and looked at him awaiting some suitable response.

  And Peter Ivanovich knew that, just as it had been the right thing

  to cross himself in that room, so what he had to do here was to

  press her hand, sigh, and say, "Believe me..." So he did all this

  and as he did it felt that the desired result had been achieved:

  that both he and she were touched.

  "Come with me. I want to speak to you before it begins," said

  the widow. "Give me your arm."

  Peter Ivanovich gave her his arm and they went to the inner

  rooms, passing Schwartz who winked at Peter Ivanovich

  compassionately.

  "That does for our bridge! Don's object if we find another

  player. Perhaps you can cut in when you do escape," said his

  playful look.

  Peter Ivanovich sighed still more deeply and despondently, and

  Praskovya Fedorovna pressed his arm gratefully. When they reached

  the drawing-room, upholstered in pink cretonne and lighted by a dim

  lamp, they sat down at the table -- she on a sofa and Peter

  Ivanovich on a low pouffe, the springs of which yielded

  spasmodically under his weight. Praskovya Fedorovna had been on

  the point of warning him to take another seat, but felt that such

  a warning was out of keeping with her present condition and so

  changed her mind. As he sat down on the pouffe Peter Ivanovich

  recalled how Ivan Ilych had arranged this room and had consulted

  him regarding this pink cretonne with green leaves. The whole room

  was full of furniture and knick-knacks, and on her way to the sofa

  the lace of the widow's black shawl caught on the edge of the

  table. Peter Ivanovich rose to detach it, and the springs of the

  pouffe, relieved of his weight, rose also and gave him a push. The

  widow began detaching her shawl herself, and Peter Ivanovich again

  sat down, suppressing the rebellious springs of the pouffe under

  him. But the widow had not quite freed herself and Peter Ivanovich

  got up again, and again the pouffe rebelled and even creaked. When

  this was all over she took out a clean cambric handkerchief and

  began to weep. The episode with the shawl and the struggle with

  the pouffe had cooled Peter Ivanovich's emotions and he sat there

  with a sullen look on his face. This awkward situation was

  interrupted by Sokolov, Ivan Ilych's butler, who came to report

  that the plot in the cemetery that Praskovya Fedorovna had chosen

  would cost tow hundred rubles. She stopped weeping and, looking at

  Peter Ivanovich with the air of a victim, remarked in French that

  it was very hard for her. Peter Ivanovich made a silent gesture

  signifying his full conviction that it must indeed be so.

  "Please smoke," she said in a magnanimous yet crushed voice,

  and turned to discuss with Sokolov the price of the plot for the

  grave.

  Peter Ivanovich while lighting his cigarette heard her

  inquiring very circumstantially into the prices of different plots

  in the cemetery and finally decide which she would take. when that

  was done she gave instructions about engaging the choir. Sokolov

  then left the room.

  "I look after everything myself," she told Peter Ivanovich,

  shifting the albums that lay on the table; and noticing that the

  table was endangered by his cigarette-ash, she immediately passed

  him an ash-tray, saying as she did so: "I consider it an

  affectation to say that my grief prevents my attending to practical

  affairs. On the contrary, if anything can -- I won't say console

  me, but -- distract me, it is
seeing to everything concerning him."

  She again took out her handkerchief as if preparing to cry, but

  suddenly, as if mastering her feeling, she shook herself and began

  to speak calmly. "But there is something I want to talk to you

  about."

  Peter Ivanovich bowed, keeping control of the springs of the

  pouffe, which immediately began quivering under him.

  "He suffered terribly the last few days."

  "Did he?" said Peter Ivanovich.

  "Oh, terribly! He screamed unceasingly, not for minutes but

  for hours. for the last three days he screamed incessantly. It

  was unendurable. I cannot understand how I bore it; you could hear

  him three rooms off. Oh, what I have suffered!"

  "Is it possible that he was conscious all that time?" asked

  Peter Ivanovich.

  "Yes," she whispered. "To the last moment. He took leave of

  us a quarter of an hour before he died, and asked us to take

  Volodya away."

  The thought of the suffering of this man he had known so

  intimately, first as a merry little boy, then as a schoolmate, and

  later as a grown-up colleague, suddenly struck Peter Ivanovich with

  horror, despite an unpleasant consciousness of his own and this

  woman's dissimulation. He again saw that brow, and that nose

  pressing down on the lip, and felt afraid for himself.

  "Three days of frightful suffering and the death! Why, that

  might suddenly, at any time, happen to me," he thought, and for a

  moment felt terrified. But -- he did not himself know how -- the

  customary reflection at once occurred to him that this had happened

  to Ivan Ilych and not to him, and that it should not and could not

  happen to him, and that to think that it could would be yielding to

  depressing which he ought not to do, as Schwartz's expression

  plainly showed. After which reflection Peter Ivanovich felt

  reassured, and began to ask with interest about the details of Ivan

  Ilych's death, as though death was an accident natural to Ivan

  Ilych but certainly not to himself.

  After many details of the really dreadful physical sufferings

  Ivan Ilych had endured (which details he learnt only from the

  effect those sufferings had produced on Praskovya Fedorovna's

  nerves) the widow apparently found it necessary to get to business.

  "Oh, Peter Ivanovich, how hard it is! How terribly, terribly

  hard!" and she again began to weep.

  Peter Ivanovich sighed and waited for her to finish blowing

  her nose. When she had don so he said, "Believe me..." and she

  again began talking and brought out what was evidently her chief

  concern with him -- namely, to question him as to how she could

  obtain a grant of money from the government on the occasion of her

  husband's death. She made it appear that she was asking Peter

  Ivanovich's advice about her pension, but he soon saw that she

  already knew about that to the minutest detail, more even than he

  did himself. She knew how much could be got out of the government

  in consequence of her husband's death, but wanted to find out

  whether she could not possibly extract something more. Peter

  Ivanovich tried to think of some means of doing so, but after

  reflecting for a while and, out of propriety, condemning the

  government for its niggardliness, he said he thought that nothing

  more could be got. Then she sighed and evidently began to devise

  means of getting rid of her visitor. Noticing this, he put out his

  cigarette, rose, pressed her hand, and went out into the anteroom.

  In the dining-room where the clock stood that Ivan Ilych had

  liked so much and had bought at an antique shop, Peter Ivanovich

  met a priest and a few acquaintances who had come to attend the

  service, and he recognized Ivan Ilych's daughter, a handsome young

  woman. She was in black and her slim figure appeared slimmer than

  ever. She had a gloomy, determined, almost angry expression, and

  bowed to Peter Ivanovich as though he were in some way to blame.

  Behind her, with the same offended look, stood a wealthy young man,

  and examining magistrate, whom Peter Ivanovich also knew and who

  was her fiance, as he had heard. He bowed mournfully to them and

  was about to pass into the death-chamber, when from under the

  stairs appeared the figure of Ivan Ilych's schoolboy son, who was