Chapter
VII
How it happened
it is impossible to say because it came about step by step, unnoticed, but in
the third month of Ivan Ilych's illness, his wife, his daughter, his son, his
acquaintances, the doctors, the servants, and above all he himself, were aware
that the whole interest he had for other people was whether he would soon vacate
his place, and at last release the living from the discomfort caused by his
presence and be himself released from his sufferings.
He slept less and less. He was given opium and hypodermic injections of
morphine, but this did not relieve him. The dull depression he experienced in a
somnolent condition at first gave him a little relief, but only as something
new, afterwards it became as distressing as the pain itself or even more so.
Special foods were prepared for him by the doctors' orders, but all those
foods became increasingly distasteful and disgusting to him.
For his excretions also special arrangements had to be made, and this was a
torment to him every time — a torment from the uncleanliness, the unseemliness,
and the smell, and from knowing that another person had to take part in it.
But just through his most unpleasant matter, Ivan Ilych obtained comfort.
Gerasim, the butler's young assistant, always came in to carry the things out.
Gerasim was a clean, fresh peasant lad, grown stout on town food and always
cheerful and bright. At first the sight of him, in his clean Russian peasant
costume, engaged on that disgusting task embarrassed Ivan Ilych.
Once when he got up from the commode to weak to draw up his trousers, he
dropped into a soft armchair and looked with horror at his bare, enfeebled
thighs with the muscles so sharply marked on them.
Gerasim with a firm light tread, his heavy boots emitting a pleasant smell of
tar and fresh winter air, came in wearing a clean Hessian apron, the sleeves of
his print shirt tucked up over his strong bare young arms; and refraining from
looking at his sick master out of consideration for his feelings, and
restraining the joy of life that beamed from his face, he went up to the
commode.
"Gerasim!" said Ivan Ilych in a weak voice.
"Gerasim started, evidently afraid he might have committed some blunder, and
with a rapid movement turned his fresh, kind, simple young face which just
showed the first downy signs of a beard.
"Yes, sir?"
"That must be very unpleasant for you. You must forgive me. I am
helpless."
"Oh, why, sir," and Gerasim's eyes beamed and he showed his glistening white
teeth, "what's a little trouble? It's a case of illness with you, sir."
And his deft strong hands did their accustomed task, and he went out of the
room stepping lightly. five minutes later he as lightly returned.
Ivan Ilych was still sitting in the same position in the armchair.
"Gerasim," he said when the latter had replaced the freshly-washed utensil.
"Please come here and help me." Gerasim went up to him. "Lift me up. It is
hard for me to get up, and I have sent Dmitri away."
Gerasim went up to him, grasped his master with his strong arms deftly but
gently, in the same way that he stepped — lifted him, supported him with one
hand, and with the other drew up his trousers and would have set him down again,
but Ivan Ilych asked to be led to the sofa. Gerasim, without an effort and
without apparent pressure, led him, almost lifting him, to the sofa and placed
him on it.
"That you. How easily and well you do it all!"
Gerasim smiled again and turned to leave the room. But Ivan Ilych felt his
presence such a comfort that he did not want to let him go.
"One thing more, please move up that chair. No, the other one — under my
feet. It is easier for me when my feet are raised."
Gerasim brought the chair, set it down gently in place, and raised Ivan
Ilych's legs on it. It seemed to Ivan Ilych that he felt better while Gerasim
was holding up his legs.
"It's better when my legs are higher," he said. "Place that cushion under
them."
Gerasim did so. He again lifted the legs and placed them, and again Ivan
Ilych felt better while Gerasim held his legs. When he set them down Ivan Ilych
fancied he felt worse.
"Gerasim," he said. "Are you busy now?"
"Not at all, sir," said Gerasim, who had learnt from the townsfolk how to
speak to gentlefolk.
"What have you still to do?"
"What have I to do? I've done everything except chopping the logs for
tomorrow."
"Then hold my legs up a bit higher, can you?"
"Of course I can. Why not?" and Gerasim raised his master's legs higher and
Ivan Ilych thought that in that position he did not feel any pain at all.
"And how about the logs?"
"Don't trouble about that, sir. There's plenty of time."
Ivan Ilych told Gerasim to sit down and hold his legs, and began to talk to
him. And strange to say it seemed to him that he felt better while Gerasim held
his legs up.
After that Ivan Ilych would sometimes call Gerasim and get him to hold his
legs on his shoulders, and he liked talking to him. Gerasim did it all easily,
willingly, simply, and with a good nature that touched Ivan Ilych. Health,
strength, and vitality in other people were offensive to him, but Gerasim's
strength and vitality did not mortify but soothed him.
What tormented Ivan Ilych most was the deception, the lie, which for some
reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but was simply ill, and the only
need keep quiet and undergo a treatment and then something very good would
result. He however knew that do what they would nothing would come of it, only
still more agonizing suffering and death. This deception tortured him — their
not wishing to admit what they all knew and what he knew, but wanting to lie to
him concerning his terrible condition, and wishing and forcing him to
participate in that lie. Those lies — lies enacted over him on the eve of his
death and destined to degrade this awful, solemn act to the level of their
visitings, their curtains, their sturgeon for dinner — were a terrible agony for
Ivan Ilych. And strangely enough, many times when they were going through their
antics over him he had been within a hairbreadth of calling out to them: "Stop
lying! You know and I know that I am dying. Then at least stop lying about
it!" But he had never had the spirit to do it. The awful, terrible act of his
dying was, he could see, reduced by those about him to the level of a casual,
unpleasant, and almost indecorous incident (as if someone entered a drawing room
defusing an unpleasant odour) and this was done by that very decorum which he
had served all his life long. He saw that no one felt for him, because no one
even wished to grasp his position. Only Gerasim recognized it and pitied him.
And so Ivan Ilych felt at ease only with him. He felt comforted when Gerasim
supported his legs (sometimes all night long) and refused to go to bed, saying:
"Don't you worry, Ivan Ilych. I'll get sleep enough later on," or when he
suddenly became familiar and exclaimed: "If you weren't sick it would be
another matter, but as it is, why should I grudge a little trouble?" Gerasim
alone did not lie; everything showed that he alone understood the facts of the
case and did not consider it necessary to disguise them, but simply felt sorry
for his emaciated and enfeebled master. Once when Ivan Ilych was sending him
away he even said straight out: "We shall all of us die, so why should I grudge
a little trouble?" — expressing the fact that he did not think his work
burdensome, because he was doing it for a dying man and hoped someone would do
the same for him when his time came.
Apart from this lying, or because of it, what most tormented Ivan Ilych was
that no one pitied him as he wished to be pitied. At certain moments after
prolonged suffering he wished most of all (though he would have been ashamed to
confess it) for someone to pity him as a sick child is pitied. He longed to be
petted and comforted. he knew he was an important functionary, that he had a
beard turning grey, and that therefore what he long for was impossible, but
still he longed for it. and in Gerasim's attitude towards him there was
something akin to what he wished for, and so that attitude comforted him. Ivan
Ilych wanted to weep, wanted to be petted and cried over, and then his colleague
Shebek would come, and instead of weeping and being petted, Ivan Ilych would
assume a serious, severe, and profound air, and by force of habit would express
his opinion on a decision of the Court of Cassation and would stubbornly insist
on that view. This falsity around him and within him did more than anything
else to poison his last days.
VII
How it happened
it is impossible to say because it came about step by step, unnoticed, but in
the third month of Ivan Ilych's illness, his wife, his daughter, his son, his
acquaintances, the doctors, the servants, and above all he himself, were aware
that the whole interest he had for other people was whether he would soon vacate
his place, and at last release the living from the discomfort caused by his
presence and be himself released from his sufferings.
He slept less and less. He was given opium and hypodermic injections of
morphine, but this did not relieve him. The dull depression he experienced in a
somnolent condition at first gave him a little relief, but only as something
new, afterwards it became as distressing as the pain itself or even more so.
Special foods were prepared for him by the doctors' orders, but all those
foods became increasingly distasteful and disgusting to him.
For his excretions also special arrangements had to be made, and this was a
torment to him every time — a torment from the uncleanliness, the unseemliness,
and the smell, and from knowing that another person had to take part in it.
But just through his most unpleasant matter, Ivan Ilych obtained comfort.
Gerasim, the butler's young assistant, always came in to carry the things out.
Gerasim was a clean, fresh peasant lad, grown stout on town food and always
cheerful and bright. At first the sight of him, in his clean Russian peasant
costume, engaged on that disgusting task embarrassed Ivan Ilych.
Once when he got up from the commode to weak to draw up his trousers, he
dropped into a soft armchair and looked with horror at his bare, enfeebled
thighs with the muscles so sharply marked on them.
Gerasim with a firm light tread, his heavy boots emitting a pleasant smell of
tar and fresh winter air, came in wearing a clean Hessian apron, the sleeves of
his print shirt tucked up over his strong bare young arms; and refraining from
looking at his sick master out of consideration for his feelings, and
restraining the joy of life that beamed from his face, he went up to the
commode.
"Gerasim!" said Ivan Ilych in a weak voice.
"Gerasim started, evidently afraid he might have committed some blunder, and
with a rapid movement turned his fresh, kind, simple young face which just
showed the first downy signs of a beard.
"Yes, sir?"
"That must be very unpleasant for you. You must forgive me. I am
helpless."
"Oh, why, sir," and Gerasim's eyes beamed and he showed his glistening white
teeth, "what's a little trouble? It's a case of illness with you, sir."
And his deft strong hands did their accustomed task, and he went out of the
room stepping lightly. five minutes later he as lightly returned.
Ivan Ilych was still sitting in the same position in the armchair.
"Gerasim," he said when the latter had replaced the freshly-washed utensil.
"Please come here and help me." Gerasim went up to him. "Lift me up. It is
hard for me to get up, and I have sent Dmitri away."
Gerasim went up to him, grasped his master with his strong arms deftly but
gently, in the same way that he stepped — lifted him, supported him with one
hand, and with the other drew up his trousers and would have set him down again,
but Ivan Ilych asked to be led to the sofa. Gerasim, without an effort and
without apparent pressure, led him, almost lifting him, to the sofa and placed
him on it.
"That you. How easily and well you do it all!"
Gerasim smiled again and turned to leave the room. But Ivan Ilych felt his
presence such a comfort that he did not want to let him go.
"One thing more, please move up that chair. No, the other one — under my
feet. It is easier for me when my feet are raised."
Gerasim brought the chair, set it down gently in place, and raised Ivan
Ilych's legs on it. It seemed to Ivan Ilych that he felt better while Gerasim
was holding up his legs.
"It's better when my legs are higher," he said. "Place that cushion under
them."
Gerasim did so. He again lifted the legs and placed them, and again Ivan
Ilych felt better while Gerasim held his legs. When he set them down Ivan Ilych
fancied he felt worse.
"Gerasim," he said. "Are you busy now?"
"Not at all, sir," said Gerasim, who had learnt from the townsfolk how to
speak to gentlefolk.
"What have you still to do?"
"What have I to do? I've done everything except chopping the logs for
tomorrow."
"Then hold my legs up a bit higher, can you?"
"Of course I can. Why not?" and Gerasim raised his master's legs higher and
Ivan Ilych thought that in that position he did not feel any pain at all.
"And how about the logs?"
"Don't trouble about that, sir. There's plenty of time."
Ivan Ilych told Gerasim to sit down and hold his legs, and began to talk to
him. And strange to say it seemed to him that he felt better while Gerasim held
his legs up.
After that Ivan Ilych would sometimes call Gerasim and get him to hold his
legs on his shoulders, and he liked talking to him. Gerasim did it all easily,
willingly, simply, and with a good nature that touched Ivan Ilych. Health,
strength, and vitality in other people were offensive to him, but Gerasim's
strength and vitality did not mortify but soothed him.
What tormented Ivan Ilych most was the deception, the lie, which for some
reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but was simply ill, and the only
need keep quiet and undergo a treatment and then something very good would
result. He however knew that do what they would nothing would come of it, only
still more agonizing suffering and death. This deception tortured him — their
not wishing to admit what they all knew and what he knew, but wanting to lie to
him concerning his terrible condition, and wishing and forcing him to
participate in that lie. Those lies — lies enacted over him on the eve of his
death and destined to degrade this awful, solemn act to the level of their
visitings, their curtains, their sturgeon for dinner — were a terrible agony for
Ivan Ilych. And strangely enough, many times when they were going through their
antics over him he had been within a hairbreadth of calling out to them: "Stop
lying! You know and I know that I am dying. Then at least stop lying about
it!" But he had never had the spirit to do it. The awful, terrible act of his
dying was, he could see, reduced by those about him to the level of a casual,
unpleasant, and almost indecorous incident (as if someone entered a drawing room
defusing an unpleasant odour) and this was done by that very decorum which he
had served all his life long. He saw that no one felt for him, because no one
even wished to grasp his position. Only Gerasim recognized it and pitied him.
And so Ivan Ilych felt at ease only with him. He felt comforted when Gerasim
supported his legs (sometimes all night long) and refused to go to bed, saying:
"Don't you worry, Ivan Ilych. I'll get sleep enough later on," or when he
suddenly became familiar and exclaimed: "If you weren't sick it would be
another matter, but as it is, why should I grudge a little trouble?" Gerasim
alone did not lie; everything showed that he alone understood the facts of the
case and did not consider it necessary to disguise them, but simply felt sorry
for his emaciated and enfeebled master. Once when Ivan Ilych was sending him
away he even said straight out: "We shall all of us die, so why should I grudge
a little trouble?" — expressing the fact that he did not think his work
burdensome, because he was doing it for a dying man and hoped someone would do
the same for him when his time came.
Apart from this lying, or because of it, what most tormented Ivan Ilych was
that no one pitied him as he wished to be pitied. At certain moments after
prolonged suffering he wished most of all (though he would have been ashamed to
confess it) for someone to pity him as a sick child is pitied. He longed to be
petted and comforted. he knew he was an important functionary, that he had a
beard turning grey, and that therefore what he long for was impossible, but
still he longed for it. and in Gerasim's attitude towards him there was
something akin to what he wished for, and so that attitude comforted him. Ivan
Ilych wanted to weep, wanted to be petted and cried over, and then his colleague
Shebek would come, and instead of weeping and being petted, Ivan Ilych would
assume a serious, severe, and profound air, and by force of habit would express
his opinion on a decision of the Court of Cassation and would stubbornly insist
on that view. This falsity around him and within him did more than anything
else to poison his last days.
Chapter
VIII
It was morning.
He knew it was morning because Gerasim had gone, and Peter the footman had come
and put out the candles, drawn back one of the curtains, and begun quietly to
tidy up. Whether it was morning or evening, Friday or Sunday, made no
difference, it was all just the same: the gnawing, unmitigated, agonizing pain,
never ceasing for an instant, the consciousness of life inexorably waning but
not yet extinguished, the approach of that ever dreaded and hateful Death which
was the only reality, and always the same falsity. What were days, weeks,
hours, in such a case?
"Will you have some tea, sir?"
"He wants things to be regular, and wishes the gentlefolk to drink tea in the
morning," thought ivan Ilych, and only said "No."
"Wouldn't you like to move onto the sofa, sir?"
"He wants to tidy up the room, and I'm in the way. I am uncleanliness and
disorder," he thought, and said only:
"No, leave me alone."
The man went on bustling about. Ivan Ilych stretched out his hand. Peter
came up, ready to help.
"What is it, sir?"
"My watch."
Peter took the watch which was close at hand and gave it to his master.
"Half-past eight. Are they up?"
"No sir, except Vladimir Ivanovich" (the son) "who has gone to school.
Praskovya Fedorovna ordered me to wake her if you asked for her. Shall I do
so?"
"No, there's no need to." "Perhaps I's better have some tea," he thought,
and added aloud: "Yes, bring me some tea."
Peter went to the door, but Ivan Ilych dreaded being left alone. "How can I
keep him here? Oh yes, my medicine." "Peter, give me my medicine." "Why not?
Perhaps it may still do some good." He took a spoonful and swallowed it. "No,
it won't help. It's all tomfoolery, all deception," he decided as soon as he
became aware of the familiar, sickly, hopeless taste. "No, I can't believe in
it any longer. But the pain, why this pain? If it would only cease just for a
moment!" And he moaned. Peter turned towards him. "It's all right. Go and
fetch me some tea."
Peter went out. Left alone Ivan Ilych groaned not so much with pain,
terrible thought that was, as from mental anguish. Always and for ever the
same, always these endless days and nights. If only it would come quicker! If
only *what* would come quicker? Death, darkness?...No, no! anything rather
than death!
when Peter returned with the tea on a tray, Ivan Ilych stared at him for a
time in perplexity, not realizing who and what he was. Peter was disconcerted
by that look and his embarrassment brought Ivan Ilych to himself.
"Oh, tea! All right, put it down. Only help me to wash and put on a clean
shirt."
And Ivan Ilych began to wash. With pauses for rest, he washed his hands and
then his face, cleaned his teeth, brushed his hair, looked in the glass. He was
terrified by what he saw, especially by the limp way in which his hair clung to
his pallid forehead.
While his shirt was being changed he knew that he would be still more
frightened at the sight of his body, so he avoided looking at it. Finally he
was ready. He drew on a dressing-gown, wrapped himself in a plaid, and sat down
in the armchair to take his tea. For a moment he felt refreshed, but as soon as
he began to drink the tea he was again aware of the same taste, and the pain
also returned. He finished it with an effort, and then lay down stretching out
his legs, and dismissed Peter.
Always the same. Now a spark of hope flashes up, then a sea of despair
rages, and always pain; always pain, always despair, and always the same. When
alone he had a dreadful and distressing desire to call someone, but he knew
beforehand that with others present it would be still worse. "Another dose of
morphine—to lose consciousness. I will tell him, the doctor, that he must think
of something else. It's impossible, impossible, to go on like this."
An hour and another pass like that. But now there is a ring at the door
bell. Perhaps it's the doctor? It is. He comes in fresh, hearty, plump, and
cheerful, with that look on his face that seems to say: "There now, you're in a
panic about something, but we'll arrange it all for you directly!" The doctor
knows this expression is out of place here, but he has put it on once for all
and can't take it off — like a man who has put on a frock-coat in the morning to
pay a round of calls.
The doctor rubs his hands vigorously and reassuringly.
"Brr! How cold it is! There's such a sharp frost; just let me warm myself!"
he says, as if it were only a matter of waiting till he was warm, and then he
would put everything right.
"Well now, how are you?"
Ivan Ilych feels that the doctor would like to say: "Well, how are our
affairs?" but that even he feels that this would not do, and says instead:
"What sort of a night have you had?"
Ivan Ilych looks at him as much as to say: "Are you really never ashamed of
lying?" But the doctor does not wish to understand this question, and Ivan
Ilych says: "Just as terrible as ever. The pain never leaves me and never
subsides. If only something ... "
"Yes, you sick people are always like that.... There, now I think I am warm
enough. Even Praskovya Fedorovna, who is so particular, could find no fault
with my temperature. Well, now I can say good-morning," and the doctor presses
his patient's hand.
Then dropping his former playfulness, he begins with a most serious face to
examine the patient, feeling his pulse and taking his temperature, and then
begins the sounding and auscultation.
Ivan Ilych knows quite well and definitely that all this is nonsense and pure
deception, but when the doctor, getting down on his knee, leans over him,
putting his ear first higher then lower, and performs various gymnastic
movements over him with a significant expression on his face, Ivan Ilych submits
to it all as he used to submit to the speeches of the lawyers, though he knew
very well that they were all lying and why they were lying.
The doctor, kneeling on the sofa, is still sounding him when Praskovya
Fedorovna's silk dress rustles at the door and she is heard scolding Peter for
not having let her know of the doctor's arrival.
She comes in, kisses her husband, and at once proceeds to prove that she has
been up a long time already, and only owing to a misunderstanding failed to be
there when the doctor arrived.
Ivan Ilych looks at her, scans her all over, sets against her the whiteness
and plumpness and cleanness of her hands and neck, the gloss of her hair, and
the sparkle of her vivacious eyes. He hates her with his whole soul. And the
thrill of hatred he feels for her makes him suffer from her touch.
Her attitude towards him and his diseases is still the same. Just as the
doctor had adopted a certain relation to his patient which he could not abandon,
so had she formed one towards him — that he was not doing something he ought to
do and was himself to blame, and that she reproached him lovingly for this — and
she could not now change that attitude.
"You see he doesn't listen to me and doesn't take his medicine at the proper
time. And above all he lies in a position that is no doubt bad for him — with
his legs up."
She described how he made Gerasim hold his legs up.
The doctor smiled with a contemptuous affability that said: "What's to be
done? These sick people do have foolish fancies of that kind, but we must
forgive them."
When the examination was over the doctor looked at his watch, and then
Praskovya Fedorovna announced to Ivan Ilych that it was of course as he pleased,
but she had sent today for a celebrated specialist who would examine him and
have a consultation with Michael Danilovich (their regular doctor).
"Please don't raise any objections. I am doing this for my own sake," she
said ironically, letting it be felt that she was doing it all for his sake and
only said this to leave him no right to refuse. He remained silent, knitting
his brows. He felt that he was surrounded and involved in a mesh of falsity
that it was hard to unravel anything.
Everything she did for him was entirely for her own sake, and she told him
she was doing for herself what she actually was doing for herself, as if that
was so incredible that he must understand the opposite.
At half-past eleven the celebrated specialist arrived. Again the sounding
began and the significant conversations in his presence and in another room,
about the kidneys and the appendix, and the questions and answers, with such an
air of importance that again, instead of the real question of life and death
which now alone confronted him, the question arose of the kidney and appendix
which were not behaving as they ought to and would now be attached by Michael
Danilovich and the specialist and forced to amend their ways.
The celebrated specialist took leave of him with a serious though not
hopeless look, and in reply to the timid question Ivan Ilych, with eyes
glistening with fear and hope, put to him as to whether there was a chance of
recovery, said that he could not vouch for it but there was a possibility. The
look of hope with which Ivan Ilych watched the doctor out was so pathetic that
Praskovya Fedorovna, seeing it, even wept as she left the room to hand the
doctor his fee.
The gleam of hope kindled by the doctor's encouragement did not last long.
The same room, the same pictures, curtains, wall- paper, medicine bottles, were
all there, and the same aching suffering body, and Ivan Ilych began to moan.
They gave him a subcutaneous injection and he sank into oblivion.
It was twilight when he came to. They brought him his dinner and he
swallowed some beef tea with difficulty, and then everything was the same again
and night was coming on.
After dinner, at seven o'clock, Praskovya Fedorovna came into the room in
evening dress, her full bosom pushed up by her corset, and with traces of powder
on her face. She had reminded him in the morning that they were going to the
theatre. Sarah Bernhardt was visiting the town and they had a box, which he had
insisted on their taking. Now he had forgotten about it and her toilet offended
him, but he concealed his vexation when he remembered that he had himself
insisted on their securing a box and going because it would be an instructive
and aesthetic pleasure for the children.
Praskovya Fedorovna came in, self-satisfied but yet with a rather guilty air.
She sat down and asked how he was, but, as he saw, only for the sake of asking
and not in order to learn about it, knowing that there was nothing to learn —
and then went on to what she really wanted to say: that she would not on any
account have gone but that the box had been taken and Helen and their daughter
were going, as well as Petrishchev (the examining magistrate, their daughter's
fiance) and that it was out of the question to let them go alone; but that she
would have much preferred to sit with him for a while; and he must be sure to
follow the doctor's orders while she was away.
"Oh, and Fedor Petrovich" (the fiance) "would like to come in. May he? And
Lisa?"
"All right."
Their daughter came in in full evening dress, her fresh young flesh exposed
(making a show of that very flesh which in his own case caused so much
suffering), strong, healthy, evidently in love, and impatient with illness,
suffering, and death, because they interfered with her happiness.
Fedor petrovich came in too, in evening dress, his hair curled *a la Capoul*,
a tight stiff collar round his long sinewy neck, an enormous white shirt-front
and narrow black trousers tightly stretched over his strong thighs. He had one
white glove tightly drawn on, and was holding his opera hat in his hand.
Following him the schoolboy crept in unnoticed, in a new uniform, poor little
fellow, and wearing gloves. Terribly dark shadows showed under his eyes, the
meaning of which Ivan Ilych knew well.
His son had always seemed pathetic to him, and now it was dreadful to see the
boy's frightened look of pity. It seemed to Ivan Ilych that Vasya was the only
one besides Gerasim who understood and pitied him.
They all sat down and again asked how he was. A silence followed. Lisa
asked her mother about the opera glasses, and there was an altercation between
mother and daughter as to who had taken them and where they had been put. This
occasioned some unpleasantness.
Fedor Petrovich inquired of Ivan Ilych whether he had ever seen Sarah
Bernhardt. Ivan Ilych did not at first catch the question, but then replied:
"No, have you seen her before?"
"Yes, in *Adrienne Lecouvreur*."
Praskovya Fedorovna mentioned some roles in which Sarah Bernhardt was
particularly good. Her daughter disagreed. Conversation sprang up as to the
elegance and realism of her acting — the sort of conversation that is always
repeated and is always the same.
In the midst of the conversation Fedor Petrovich glanced at Ivan Ilych and
became silent. The others also looked at him and grew silent. Ivan Ilych was
staring with glittering eyes straight before him, evidently indignant with them.
This had to be rectified, but it was impossible to do so. The silence had to
be broken, but for a time no one dared to break it and they all became afraid
that the conventional deception would suddenly become obvious and the truth
become plain to all. Lisa was the first to pluck up courage and break that
silence, but by trying to hide what everybody was feeling, she betrayed it.
"Well, if we are going it's time to start," she said, looking at her watch, a
present from her father, and with a faint and significant smile at Fedor
Petrovich relating to something known only to them. She got up with a rustle of
her dress.
They all rose, said good-night, and went away.
When they had gone it seemed to Ivan Ilych that he felt better; the falsity
had gone with them. But the pain remained — that same pain and that same fear
that made everything monotonously alike, nothing harder and nothing easier.
Everything was worse.
Again minute followed minute and hour followed hour. Everything remained the
same and there was no cessation. And the inevitable end of it all became more
and more terrible.
"Yes, send Gerasim here," he replied to a question Peter asked.
VIII
It was morning.
He knew it was morning because Gerasim had gone, and Peter the footman had come
and put out the candles, drawn back one of the curtains, and begun quietly to
tidy up. Whether it was morning or evening, Friday or Sunday, made no
difference, it was all just the same: the gnawing, unmitigated, agonizing pain,
never ceasing for an instant, the consciousness of life inexorably waning but
not yet extinguished, the approach of that ever dreaded and hateful Death which
was the only reality, and always the same falsity. What were days, weeks,
hours, in such a case?
"Will you have some tea, sir?"
"He wants things to be regular, and wishes the gentlefolk to drink tea in the
morning," thought ivan Ilych, and only said "No."
"Wouldn't you like to move onto the sofa, sir?"
"He wants to tidy up the room, and I'm in the way. I am uncleanliness and
disorder," he thought, and said only:
"No, leave me alone."
The man went on bustling about. Ivan Ilych stretched out his hand. Peter
came up, ready to help.
"What is it, sir?"
"My watch."
Peter took the watch which was close at hand and gave it to his master.
"Half-past eight. Are they up?"
"No sir, except Vladimir Ivanovich" (the son) "who has gone to school.
Praskovya Fedorovna ordered me to wake her if you asked for her. Shall I do
so?"
"No, there's no need to." "Perhaps I's better have some tea," he thought,
and added aloud: "Yes, bring me some tea."
Peter went to the door, but Ivan Ilych dreaded being left alone. "How can I
keep him here? Oh yes, my medicine." "Peter, give me my medicine." "Why not?
Perhaps it may still do some good." He took a spoonful and swallowed it. "No,
it won't help. It's all tomfoolery, all deception," he decided as soon as he
became aware of the familiar, sickly, hopeless taste. "No, I can't believe in
it any longer. But the pain, why this pain? If it would only cease just for a
moment!" And he moaned. Peter turned towards him. "It's all right. Go and
fetch me some tea."
Peter went out. Left alone Ivan Ilych groaned not so much with pain,
terrible thought that was, as from mental anguish. Always and for ever the
same, always these endless days and nights. If only it would come quicker! If
only *what* would come quicker? Death, darkness?...No, no! anything rather
than death!
when Peter returned with the tea on a tray, Ivan Ilych stared at him for a
time in perplexity, not realizing who and what he was. Peter was disconcerted
by that look and his embarrassment brought Ivan Ilych to himself.
"Oh, tea! All right, put it down. Only help me to wash and put on a clean
shirt."
And Ivan Ilych began to wash. With pauses for rest, he washed his hands and
then his face, cleaned his teeth, brushed his hair, looked in the glass. He was
terrified by what he saw, especially by the limp way in which his hair clung to
his pallid forehead.
While his shirt was being changed he knew that he would be still more
frightened at the sight of his body, so he avoided looking at it. Finally he
was ready. He drew on a dressing-gown, wrapped himself in a plaid, and sat down
in the armchair to take his tea. For a moment he felt refreshed, but as soon as
he began to drink the tea he was again aware of the same taste, and the pain
also returned. He finished it with an effort, and then lay down stretching out
his legs, and dismissed Peter.
Always the same. Now a spark of hope flashes up, then a sea of despair
rages, and always pain; always pain, always despair, and always the same. When
alone he had a dreadful and distressing desire to call someone, but he knew
beforehand that with others present it would be still worse. "Another dose of
morphine—to lose consciousness. I will tell him, the doctor, that he must think
of something else. It's impossible, impossible, to go on like this."
An hour and another pass like that. But now there is a ring at the door
bell. Perhaps it's the doctor? It is. He comes in fresh, hearty, plump, and
cheerful, with that look on his face that seems to say: "There now, you're in a
panic about something, but we'll arrange it all for you directly!" The doctor
knows this expression is out of place here, but he has put it on once for all
and can't take it off — like a man who has put on a frock-coat in the morning to
pay a round of calls.
The doctor rubs his hands vigorously and reassuringly.
"Brr! How cold it is! There's such a sharp frost; just let me warm myself!"
he says, as if it were only a matter of waiting till he was warm, and then he
would put everything right.
"Well now, how are you?"
Ivan Ilych feels that the doctor would like to say: "Well, how are our
affairs?" but that even he feels that this would not do, and says instead:
"What sort of a night have you had?"
Ivan Ilych looks at him as much as to say: "Are you really never ashamed of
lying?" But the doctor does not wish to understand this question, and Ivan
Ilych says: "Just as terrible as ever. The pain never leaves me and never
subsides. If only something ... "
"Yes, you sick people are always like that.... There, now I think I am warm
enough. Even Praskovya Fedorovna, who is so particular, could find no fault
with my temperature. Well, now I can say good-morning," and the doctor presses
his patient's hand.
Then dropping his former playfulness, he begins with a most serious face to
examine the patient, feeling his pulse and taking his temperature, and then
begins the sounding and auscultation.
Ivan Ilych knows quite well and definitely that all this is nonsense and pure
deception, but when the doctor, getting down on his knee, leans over him,
putting his ear first higher then lower, and performs various gymnastic
movements over him with a significant expression on his face, Ivan Ilych submits
to it all as he used to submit to the speeches of the lawyers, though he knew
very well that they were all lying and why they were lying.
The doctor, kneeling on the sofa, is still sounding him when Praskovya
Fedorovna's silk dress rustles at the door and she is heard scolding Peter for
not having let her know of the doctor's arrival.
She comes in, kisses her husband, and at once proceeds to prove that she has
been up a long time already, and only owing to a misunderstanding failed to be
there when the doctor arrived.
Ivan Ilych looks at her, scans her all over, sets against her the whiteness
and plumpness and cleanness of her hands and neck, the gloss of her hair, and
the sparkle of her vivacious eyes. He hates her with his whole soul. And the
thrill of hatred he feels for her makes him suffer from her touch.
Her attitude towards him and his diseases is still the same. Just as the
doctor had adopted a certain relation to his patient which he could not abandon,
so had she formed one towards him — that he was not doing something he ought to
do and was himself to blame, and that she reproached him lovingly for this — and
she could not now change that attitude.
"You see he doesn't listen to me and doesn't take his medicine at the proper
time. And above all he lies in a position that is no doubt bad for him — with
his legs up."
She described how he made Gerasim hold his legs up.
The doctor smiled with a contemptuous affability that said: "What's to be
done? These sick people do have foolish fancies of that kind, but we must
forgive them."
When the examination was over the doctor looked at his watch, and then
Praskovya Fedorovna announced to Ivan Ilych that it was of course as he pleased,
but she had sent today for a celebrated specialist who would examine him and
have a consultation with Michael Danilovich (their regular doctor).
"Please don't raise any objections. I am doing this for my own sake," she
said ironically, letting it be felt that she was doing it all for his sake and
only said this to leave him no right to refuse. He remained silent, knitting
his brows. He felt that he was surrounded and involved in a mesh of falsity
that it was hard to unravel anything.
Everything she did for him was entirely for her own sake, and she told him
she was doing for herself what she actually was doing for herself, as if that
was so incredible that he must understand the opposite.
At half-past eleven the celebrated specialist arrived. Again the sounding
began and the significant conversations in his presence and in another room,
about the kidneys and the appendix, and the questions and answers, with such an
air of importance that again, instead of the real question of life and death
which now alone confronted him, the question arose of the kidney and appendix
which were not behaving as they ought to and would now be attached by Michael
Danilovich and the specialist and forced to amend their ways.
The celebrated specialist took leave of him with a serious though not
hopeless look, and in reply to the timid question Ivan Ilych, with eyes
glistening with fear and hope, put to him as to whether there was a chance of
recovery, said that he could not vouch for it but there was a possibility. The
look of hope with which Ivan Ilych watched the doctor out was so pathetic that
Praskovya Fedorovna, seeing it, even wept as she left the room to hand the
doctor his fee.
The gleam of hope kindled by the doctor's encouragement did not last long.
The same room, the same pictures, curtains, wall- paper, medicine bottles, were
all there, and the same aching suffering body, and Ivan Ilych began to moan.
They gave him a subcutaneous injection and he sank into oblivion.
It was twilight when he came to. They brought him his dinner and he
swallowed some beef tea with difficulty, and then everything was the same again
and night was coming on.
After dinner, at seven o'clock, Praskovya Fedorovna came into the room in
evening dress, her full bosom pushed up by her corset, and with traces of powder
on her face. She had reminded him in the morning that they were going to the
theatre. Sarah Bernhardt was visiting the town and they had a box, which he had
insisted on their taking. Now he had forgotten about it and her toilet offended
him, but he concealed his vexation when he remembered that he had himself
insisted on their securing a box and going because it would be an instructive
and aesthetic pleasure for the children.
Praskovya Fedorovna came in, self-satisfied but yet with a rather guilty air.
She sat down and asked how he was, but, as he saw, only for the sake of asking
and not in order to learn about it, knowing that there was nothing to learn —
and then went on to what she really wanted to say: that she would not on any
account have gone but that the box had been taken and Helen and their daughter
were going, as well as Petrishchev (the examining magistrate, their daughter's
fiance) and that it was out of the question to let them go alone; but that she
would have much preferred to sit with him for a while; and he must be sure to
follow the doctor's orders while she was away.
"Oh, and Fedor Petrovich" (the fiance) "would like to come in. May he? And
Lisa?"
"All right."
Their daughter came in in full evening dress, her fresh young flesh exposed
(making a show of that very flesh which in his own case caused so much
suffering), strong, healthy, evidently in love, and impatient with illness,
suffering, and death, because they interfered with her happiness.
Fedor petrovich came in too, in evening dress, his hair curled *a la Capoul*,
a tight stiff collar round his long sinewy neck, an enormous white shirt-front
and narrow black trousers tightly stretched over his strong thighs. He had one
white glove tightly drawn on, and was holding his opera hat in his hand.
Following him the schoolboy crept in unnoticed, in a new uniform, poor little
fellow, and wearing gloves. Terribly dark shadows showed under his eyes, the
meaning of which Ivan Ilych knew well.
His son had always seemed pathetic to him, and now it was dreadful to see the
boy's frightened look of pity. It seemed to Ivan Ilych that Vasya was the only
one besides Gerasim who understood and pitied him.
They all sat down and again asked how he was. A silence followed. Lisa
asked her mother about the opera glasses, and there was an altercation between
mother and daughter as to who had taken them and where they had been put. This
occasioned some unpleasantness.
Fedor Petrovich inquired of Ivan Ilych whether he had ever seen Sarah
Bernhardt. Ivan Ilych did not at first catch the question, but then replied:
"No, have you seen her before?"
"Yes, in *Adrienne Lecouvreur*."
Praskovya Fedorovna mentioned some roles in which Sarah Bernhardt was
particularly good. Her daughter disagreed. Conversation sprang up as to the
elegance and realism of her acting — the sort of conversation that is always
repeated and is always the same.
In the midst of the conversation Fedor Petrovich glanced at Ivan Ilych and
became silent. The others also looked at him and grew silent. Ivan Ilych was
staring with glittering eyes straight before him, evidently indignant with them.
This had to be rectified, but it was impossible to do so. The silence had to
be broken, but for a time no one dared to break it and they all became afraid
that the conventional deception would suddenly become obvious and the truth
become plain to all. Lisa was the first to pluck up courage and break that
silence, but by trying to hide what everybody was feeling, she betrayed it.
"Well, if we are going it's time to start," she said, looking at her watch, a
present from her father, and with a faint and significant smile at Fedor
Petrovich relating to something known only to them. She got up with a rustle of
her dress.
They all rose, said good-night, and went away.
When they had gone it seemed to Ivan Ilych that he felt better; the falsity
had gone with them. But the pain remained — that same pain and that same fear
that made everything monotonously alike, nothing harder and nothing easier.
Everything was worse.
Again minute followed minute and hour followed hour. Everything remained the
same and there was no cessation. And the inevitable end of it all became more
and more terrible.
"Yes, send Gerasim here," he replied to a question Peter asked.