Chapter
IX
His wife
returned late at night. She came in on tiptoe, but he heard her, opened his
eyes, and made haste to close them again. She wished to send Gerasim away and
to sit with him herself, but he opened his eyes and said: "No, go
away."
"Are you in great pain?"
"Always the same."
"Take some opium."
He agreed and took some. She went away.
Till about three in the morning he was in a state of stupefied misery. It
seemed to him that he and his pain were being thrust into a narrow, deep black
sack, but though they were pushed further and further in they could not be
pushed to the bottom. And this, terrible enough in itself, was accompanied by
suffering. He was frightened yet wanted to fall through the sack, he struggled
but yet co-operated. And suddenly he broke through, fell, and regained
consciousness. Gerasim was sitting at the foot of the bed dozing quietly and
patiently, while he himself lay with his emaciated stockinged legs resting on
Gerasim's shoulders; the same shaded candle was there and the same unceasing
pain.
"Go away, Gerasim," he whispered.
"It's all right, sir. I'll stay a while."
"No. Go away."
He removed his legs from Gerasim's shoulders, turned sideways onto his arm,
and felt sorry for himself. He only waited till Gerasim had gone into the next
room and then restrained himself no longer but wept like a child. He wept on
account of his helplessness, his terrible loneliness, the cruelty of man, the
cruelty of God, and the absence of God.
"Why hast Thou done all this? Why hast Thou brought me here? Why, why dost
Thou torment me so terribly?"
He did not expect an answer and yet wept because there was no answer and
could be none. The pain again grew more acute, but he did not stir and did not
call. He said to himself: "Go on! Strike me! But what is it for? What have
I done to Thee? What is it for?"
Then he grew quiet and not only ceased weeping but even held his breath and
became all attention. It was as though he were listening not to an audible
voice but to the voice of his soul, to the current of thoughts arising within
him.
"What is it you want?" was the first clear conception capable of expression
in words, that he heard.
"What do you want? What do you want?" he repeated to himself.
"What do I want? To live and not to suffer," he answered.
And again he listened with such concentrated attention that even his pain did
not distract him.
"To live? How?" asked his inner voice.
"Why, to live as I used to — well and pleasantly."
"As you lived before, well and pleasantly?" the voice repeated.
And in imagination he began to recall the best moments of his pleasant life.
But strange to say none of those best moments of his pleasant life now seemed at
all what they had then seemed — none of them except the first recollections of
childhood. There, in childhood, there had been something really pleasant with
which it would be possible to live if it could return. But the child who had
experienced that happiness existed no longer, it was like a reminiscence of
somebody else.
as soon as the period began which had produced the present Ivan Ilych, all
that had then seemed joys now melted before his sight and turned into something
trivial and often nasty.
And the further he departed from childhood and the nearer he came to the
present the more worthless and doubtful were the joys. This began with the
School of Law. A little that was really good was still found there — there was
light-heartedness, friendship, and hope. But in the upper classes there had
already been fewer of such good moments. Then during the first years of his
official career, when he was in the service of the governor, some pleasant
moments again occurred: they were the memories of love for a woman. Then all
became confused and there was still less of what was good; later on again there
was still less that was good, and the further he went the less there was. His
marriage, a mere accident, then the disenchantment that followed it, his wife's
bad breath and the sensuality and hypocrisy: then that deadly official life and
those preoccupations about money, a year of it, and two, and ten, and twenty,
and always the same thing. And the longer it lasted the more deadly it became.
"It is as if I had been going downhill while I imagined I was going up. And
that is really what it was. I was going up in public opinion, but to the same
extent life was ebbing away from me. And now it is all done and there is only
death.
"Then what does it mean? Why? It can't be that life is so senseless and
horrible. But if it really has been so horrible and senseless, why must I die
and die in agony? There is something wrong!
"Maybe I did not live as I ought to have done," it suddenly occurred to him.
"But how could that be, when I did everything properly?" he replied, and
immediately dismissed from his mind this, the sole solution of all the riddles
of life and death, as something quite impossible.
"Then what do you want now? To live? Live how? Live as you lived in the
law courts when the usher proclaimed 'The judge is coming!' The judge is
coming, the judge!" he repeated to himself. "Here he is, the judge. But I am
not guilty!" he exclaimed angrily. "What is it for?" And he ceased crying, but
turning his face to the wall continued to ponder on the same question: Why, and
for what purpose, is there all this horror? But however much he pondered he
found no answer. And whenever the thought occurred to him, as it often did,
that it all resulted from his not having lived as he ought to have done, he at
once recalled the correctness of his whole life and dismissed so strange an
idea.
IX
His wife
returned late at night. She came in on tiptoe, but he heard her, opened his
eyes, and made haste to close them again. She wished to send Gerasim away and
to sit with him herself, but he opened his eyes and said: "No, go
away."
"Are you in great pain?"
"Always the same."
"Take some opium."
He agreed and took some. She went away.
Till about three in the morning he was in a state of stupefied misery. It
seemed to him that he and his pain were being thrust into a narrow, deep black
sack, but though they were pushed further and further in they could not be
pushed to the bottom. And this, terrible enough in itself, was accompanied by
suffering. He was frightened yet wanted to fall through the sack, he struggled
but yet co-operated. And suddenly he broke through, fell, and regained
consciousness. Gerasim was sitting at the foot of the bed dozing quietly and
patiently, while he himself lay with his emaciated stockinged legs resting on
Gerasim's shoulders; the same shaded candle was there and the same unceasing
pain.
"Go away, Gerasim," he whispered.
"It's all right, sir. I'll stay a while."
"No. Go away."
He removed his legs from Gerasim's shoulders, turned sideways onto his arm,
and felt sorry for himself. He only waited till Gerasim had gone into the next
room and then restrained himself no longer but wept like a child. He wept on
account of his helplessness, his terrible loneliness, the cruelty of man, the
cruelty of God, and the absence of God.
"Why hast Thou done all this? Why hast Thou brought me here? Why, why dost
Thou torment me so terribly?"
He did not expect an answer and yet wept because there was no answer and
could be none. The pain again grew more acute, but he did not stir and did not
call. He said to himself: "Go on! Strike me! But what is it for? What have
I done to Thee? What is it for?"
Then he grew quiet and not only ceased weeping but even held his breath and
became all attention. It was as though he were listening not to an audible
voice but to the voice of his soul, to the current of thoughts arising within
him.
"What is it you want?" was the first clear conception capable of expression
in words, that he heard.
"What do you want? What do you want?" he repeated to himself.
"What do I want? To live and not to suffer," he answered.
And again he listened with such concentrated attention that even his pain did
not distract him.
"To live? How?" asked his inner voice.
"Why, to live as I used to — well and pleasantly."
"As you lived before, well and pleasantly?" the voice repeated.
And in imagination he began to recall the best moments of his pleasant life.
But strange to say none of those best moments of his pleasant life now seemed at
all what they had then seemed — none of them except the first recollections of
childhood. There, in childhood, there had been something really pleasant with
which it would be possible to live if it could return. But the child who had
experienced that happiness existed no longer, it was like a reminiscence of
somebody else.
as soon as the period began which had produced the present Ivan Ilych, all
that had then seemed joys now melted before his sight and turned into something
trivial and often nasty.
And the further he departed from childhood and the nearer he came to the
present the more worthless and doubtful were the joys. This began with the
School of Law. A little that was really good was still found there — there was
light-heartedness, friendship, and hope. But in the upper classes there had
already been fewer of such good moments. Then during the first years of his
official career, when he was in the service of the governor, some pleasant
moments again occurred: they were the memories of love for a woman. Then all
became confused and there was still less of what was good; later on again there
was still less that was good, and the further he went the less there was. His
marriage, a mere accident, then the disenchantment that followed it, his wife's
bad breath and the sensuality and hypocrisy: then that deadly official life and
those preoccupations about money, a year of it, and two, and ten, and twenty,
and always the same thing. And the longer it lasted the more deadly it became.
"It is as if I had been going downhill while I imagined I was going up. And
that is really what it was. I was going up in public opinion, but to the same
extent life was ebbing away from me. And now it is all done and there is only
death.
"Then what does it mean? Why? It can't be that life is so senseless and
horrible. But if it really has been so horrible and senseless, why must I die
and die in agony? There is something wrong!
"Maybe I did not live as I ought to have done," it suddenly occurred to him.
"But how could that be, when I did everything properly?" he replied, and
immediately dismissed from his mind this, the sole solution of all the riddles
of life and death, as something quite impossible.
"Then what do you want now? To live? Live how? Live as you lived in the
law courts when the usher proclaimed 'The judge is coming!' The judge is
coming, the judge!" he repeated to himself. "Here he is, the judge. But I am
not guilty!" he exclaimed angrily. "What is it for?" And he ceased crying, but
turning his face to the wall continued to ponder on the same question: Why, and
for what purpose, is there all this horror? But however much he pondered he
found no answer. And whenever the thought occurred to him, as it often did,
that it all resulted from his not having lived as he ought to have done, he at
once recalled the correctness of his whole life and dismissed so strange an
idea.
Chapter
X
Another
fortnight passed. Ivan Ilych now no longer left his sofa. He would not lie in
bed but lay on the sofa, facing the wall nearly all the time. He suffered ever
the same unceasing agonies and in his loneliness pondered always on the same
insoluble question: "What is this? Can it be that it is Death?" And the inner
voice answered: "Yes, it is Death."
"Why these sufferings?" And the voice answered, "For no reason — they just
are so." Beyond and besides this there was nothing.
From the very beginning of his illness, ever since he had first been to see
the doctor, Ivan Ilych's life had been divided between two contrary and
alternating moods: now it was despair and the expectation of this
uncomprehended and terrible death, and now hope and an intently interested
observation of the functioning of his organs. Now before his eyes there was
only a kidney or an intestine that temporarily evaded its duty, and now only
that incomprehensible and dreadful death from which it was impossible to
escape.
These two states of mind had alternated from the very beginning of his
illness, but the further it progressed the more doubtful and fantastic became
the conception of the kidney, and the more real the sense of impending
death.
He had but to call to mind what he had been three months before and what he
was now, to call to mind with what regularity he had been going downhill, for
every possibility of hope to be shattered.
Latterly during the loneliness in which he found himself as he lay facing the
back of the sofa, a loneliness in the midst of a populous town and surrounded by
numerous acquaintances and relations but that yet could not have been more
complete anywhere - - either at the bottom of the sea or under the earth —
during that terrible loneliness Ivan ilych had lived only in memories of the
past. Pictures of his past rose before him one after another. they always
began with what was nearest in time and then went back to what was most remote —
to his childhood — and rested there. If he thought of the stewed prunes that
had been offered him that day, his mind went back to the raw shrivelled French
plums of his childhood, their peculiar flavour and the flow of saliva when he
sucked their stones, and along with the memory of that taste came a whole series
of memories of those days: his nurse, his brother, and their toys. "No, I
mustn't thing of that....It is too painful," Ivan Ilych said to himself, and
brought himself back to the present — to the button on the back of the sofa and
the creases in its morocco. "Morocco is expensive, but it does not wear well:
there had been a quarrel about it. It was a different kind of quarrel and a
different kind of morocco that time when we tore father's portfolio and were
punished, and mamma brought us some tarts...." And again his thoughts dwelt on
his childhood, and again it was painful and he tried to banish them and fix his
mind on something else.
Then again together with that chain of memories another series passed through
his mind — of how his illness had progressed and grown worse. There also the
further back he looked the more life there had been. There had been more of
what was good in life and more of life itself. The two merged together. "Just
as the pain went on getting worse and worse, so my life grew worse and worse,"
he thought. "There is one bright spot there at the back, at the beginning of
life, and afterwards all becomes blacker and blacker and proceeds more and more
rapidly — in inverse ration to the square of the distance from death," thought
Ivan Ilych. And the example of a stone falling downwards with increasing
velocity entered his mind. Life, a series of increasing sufferings, flies
further and further towards its end — the most terrible suffering. "I am
flying...." He shuddered, shifted himself, and tried to resist, but was already
aware that resistance was impossible, and again with eyes weary of gazing but
unable to cease seeing what was before them, he stared at the back of the sofa
and waited — awaiting that dreadful fall and shock and destruction.
"Resistance is impossible!" he said to himself. "If I could only understand
what it is all for! But that too is impossible. An explanation would be
possible if it could be said that I have not lived as I ought to. But it is
impossible to say that," and he remembered all the legality, correctitude, and
propriety of his life. "That at any rate can certainly not be admitted," he
thought, and his lips smiled ironically as if someone could see that smile and
be taken in by it. "There is no explanation! Agony, death....What for?"
X
Another
fortnight passed. Ivan Ilych now no longer left his sofa. He would not lie in
bed but lay on the sofa, facing the wall nearly all the time. He suffered ever
the same unceasing agonies and in his loneliness pondered always on the same
insoluble question: "What is this? Can it be that it is Death?" And the inner
voice answered: "Yes, it is Death."
"Why these sufferings?" And the voice answered, "For no reason — they just
are so." Beyond and besides this there was nothing.
From the very beginning of his illness, ever since he had first been to see
the doctor, Ivan Ilych's life had been divided between two contrary and
alternating moods: now it was despair and the expectation of this
uncomprehended and terrible death, and now hope and an intently interested
observation of the functioning of his organs. Now before his eyes there was
only a kidney or an intestine that temporarily evaded its duty, and now only
that incomprehensible and dreadful death from which it was impossible to
escape.
These two states of mind had alternated from the very beginning of his
illness, but the further it progressed the more doubtful and fantastic became
the conception of the kidney, and the more real the sense of impending
death.
He had but to call to mind what he had been three months before and what he
was now, to call to mind with what regularity he had been going downhill, for
every possibility of hope to be shattered.
Latterly during the loneliness in which he found himself as he lay facing the
back of the sofa, a loneliness in the midst of a populous town and surrounded by
numerous acquaintances and relations but that yet could not have been more
complete anywhere - - either at the bottom of the sea or under the earth —
during that terrible loneliness Ivan ilych had lived only in memories of the
past. Pictures of his past rose before him one after another. they always
began with what was nearest in time and then went back to what was most remote —
to his childhood — and rested there. If he thought of the stewed prunes that
had been offered him that day, his mind went back to the raw shrivelled French
plums of his childhood, their peculiar flavour and the flow of saliva when he
sucked their stones, and along with the memory of that taste came a whole series
of memories of those days: his nurse, his brother, and their toys. "No, I
mustn't thing of that....It is too painful," Ivan Ilych said to himself, and
brought himself back to the present — to the button on the back of the sofa and
the creases in its morocco. "Morocco is expensive, but it does not wear well:
there had been a quarrel about it. It was a different kind of quarrel and a
different kind of morocco that time when we tore father's portfolio and were
punished, and mamma brought us some tarts...." And again his thoughts dwelt on
his childhood, and again it was painful and he tried to banish them and fix his
mind on something else.
Then again together with that chain of memories another series passed through
his mind — of how his illness had progressed and grown worse. There also the
further back he looked the more life there had been. There had been more of
what was good in life and more of life itself. The two merged together. "Just
as the pain went on getting worse and worse, so my life grew worse and worse,"
he thought. "There is one bright spot there at the back, at the beginning of
life, and afterwards all becomes blacker and blacker and proceeds more and more
rapidly — in inverse ration to the square of the distance from death," thought
Ivan Ilych. And the example of a stone falling downwards with increasing
velocity entered his mind. Life, a series of increasing sufferings, flies
further and further towards its end — the most terrible suffering. "I am
flying...." He shuddered, shifted himself, and tried to resist, but was already
aware that resistance was impossible, and again with eyes weary of gazing but
unable to cease seeing what was before them, he stared at the back of the sofa
and waited — awaiting that dreadful fall and shock and destruction.
"Resistance is impossible!" he said to himself. "If I could only understand
what it is all for! But that too is impossible. An explanation would be
possible if it could be said that I have not lived as I ought to. But it is
impossible to say that," and he remembered all the legality, correctitude, and
propriety of his life. "That at any rate can certainly not be admitted," he
thought, and his lips smiled ironically as if someone could see that smile and
be taken in by it. "There is no explanation! Agony, death....What for?"