by Leo Tolstoy
Yes, it was all wrong, he told himself, but that’s fine. I can still make it “right”. I can… But what is “right”? he asked himself, then suddenly fell silent.
This was at the end of the third day, an hour before his death. Just at that time the schoolboy had quietly crept into his father’s room and gone up to his bed. The dying man was howling desperately, flailing his arms. One of his hands landed on the schoolboy’s head. The schoolboy seized it, pressed it to his lips and began to cry.
Just at that time Ivan Ilyich fell through, saw the light, and it was revealed to him that his life had not been what it ought to have been but that there was still time to set things right. He asked himself, What is “right”? and grew still, listening. And then he felt someone kissing his hand. He opened his eyes and glanced at his son. He felt sorry for him. His wife came closer. He glanced at her. She was watching him with a desperate expression on her face, open-mouthed, with unwiped tears on her nose and cheek. He felt sorry for her too.
Yes, I’m making them suffer, he thought. They feel sorry for me but it will be better for them when I die. He wanted to say as much but he was simply too weak to get out the words. In any case, why say it? The thing is to do it, he thought. He turned his eyes to his son and said to his wife:
“Take him away… sorry for him… for you too…” He wanted to add “Forgive”, but said “Forgo” and, too weak to correct himself, waved his hand, knowing that he would be understood by the one who needed to understand.
And suddenly it dawned on him that what had been causing him such torment and would not leave his body was leaving him all at once, from two sides, from ten sides, from all sides. He felt sorry for them and needed to relieve their pain. He needed to free them and to free himself of this suffering. How good and how simple, he thought. And the pain? he asked himself. What do I do about it? Let’s see… Where are you, pain?
He turned his attention to it.
Ah, there it is. All right, so be it.
And death? Where is death?
He was searching for his former habitual fear of death and could not find it. Where was it? What death? There was no fear, because there was no death.
Instead of death there was light.
“So that’s it,” he suddenly said aloud. “What joy!”
For him all this transpired in an instant, and the meaning of this instant never changed. For those present his agony continued for another two hours. There was a gurgling in his chest and his emaciated body trembled. Then the gurgling and wheezing grew less and less frequent.
“It’s over,” said someone over him.
He heard these words and repeated them in his soul. Death is over, he told himself. No more death.
He drew in air, stopped midway through the breath, stretched out, and died.
Notes
1 Introduced by Peter the Great in 1722—and abolished by the Bolsheviks in 1917—the Table of Ranks was an official list of fourteen ranks and positions of the civil, military, and court systems of imperial Russia. The tenth rank of the civil service was that of collegiate secretary.
2 E.F. Charmeur was one of the finest tailors in St Petersburg in the late imperial period.
3 Donon’s was an exclusive restaurant in St Petersburg at the time.
4 An official for special assignments was a position for imperial civil servants of the sixth to the ninth ranks. (See note 1.)
5 Old Believers are Eastern Orthodox Christians who refuse to accept the reforms to the rituals and practices of the Church implemented by Patriarch Nikon between 1652 and 1666. Although they were heavily persecuted in both the imperial and Soviet periods, communities of Old Believers survive to this day.
6 Named after Maria Feodorovna, the second wife of Emperor Paul I, the Institutions of Empress Maria was a government office in imperial Russia that managed hospitals, orphanages, poorhouses, homes for the disabled and educational facilities for women and children. It was abolished in 1917.
7 A line from the poem “Song” (1796) by Yury Neledinsky-Meletsky (1751–1828).
8 Johann Gottfried Karl Christian Kiesewetter (1766– 1819) played an important role in popularizing the philosophy of Immanuel Kant and was the author of an influential textbook of logic, Grundriß einer reinen allgemeinen Logik, nach Kantischen Grundsätzen, which first appeared in 1791 and went through several editions.
9 A men’s hairstyle named after the French operatic tenor Victor Capoul (1839–1924), in which the hair is parted down the middle with two curls on either side of the forehead.
PACE-SETTER
The Story of a Horse
IN MEMORY OF M.A. ST AKHOVICH1
I
THE SKY ROSE higher and higher, the dawn spread wider and wider, and the dull silvery drops of dew turned ever more white. Life was fading from the crescent moon, while the forest was slowly filling with noise. People were starting their day, and in the master’s stable yard the sounds of rustling straw, of snorting and even of shrill angry neighing among squabbling horses grew ever more frequent.
“Come on! Get back! Hungry, eh?” said the old herdsman, opening the creaking gate. “I said get back!” he shouted, waving his arm at a little mare that was making for the gate.
Nester the herdsman wore a Cossack coat. He had a whip over his shoulder and some bread wrapped in cloth stuck in his ornamented belt. He was carrying a saddle and bridle.
The horses were not at all frightened or offended by his mocking tone. In fact, they pretended not to care and slowly walked away from the gate. Only one old mare—dark bay, with a thick mane—pinned back her ear and swiftly turned round, showing him her rear. At that point a young filly that was standing behind her and was not at all involved in the matter suddenly whinnied and kicked out at the nearest horse.
“Come on!” the herdsman cried out even louder and more sternly, then made his way towards the corner of the yard.
Of all the horses in the enclosure (there were about a hundred of them), a piebald gelding who stood alone in the corner showed the least impatience. He stood under a canopy, squinting and licking an oak post. It is impossible to say what flavour he found in that post, but the expression on his face as he licked it was thoughtful and serious.
“Enough!” the herdsman shouted in the same tone, approaching the gelding and placing the saddle and a glossy saddlecloth on the manure heap beside him.
The gelding stopped licking and stared at Nester for a long time, not moving a muscle. He neither laughed, nor got angry, nor frowned, but only heaved a huge sigh with his whole belly, then turned away. The herdsman wrapped his arms around the gelding’s neck and put on the bridle.
“Whatcha sighing for?” he asked.
The gelding switched his tail as if to say: “Nothing, Nester. Nothing.” When Nester put on the saddlecloth and saddle, the gelding pinned back his ears, evidently to express his displeasure. This did no good: he was only called a “lousy bastard” and the saddle girths were drawn tighter. The gelding puffed himself up—but a finger was thrust in his mouth and he was kneed in the belly, so that he had to let out his breath. Nevertheless, when Nester was cinching the strap with his teeth, the gelding again pinned back his ears and even looked round. Although he knew it would do no good, he still thought it necessary to show his displeasure and to make it clear that he would always show it. When he was finally saddled he put his swollen right leg forward and began champing at his bit; this too he did for some special reason of his own, since he surely knew by then that bits have no flavour.
Nester put his foot in the short stirrup and mounted the gelding, unwound his whip, pulled the side of his coat from under his knee, positioned himself in that special coachman-huntsman-herdsman manner, and tugged the reins. The gelding raised his head, indicating his willingness to go where he was ordered to go, but did not move. He knew that before riding, the man atop of him still had more shouting to do; there would be orders for the horses and the other herdsman, Vaska. And Nester did indeed comm
ence shouting: “Vaska! Hey, Vaska! Did ya let out the brood mares? Whatcha doin’—sleepin’, you dog? Get a move on and open the gate! Let them brood mares out first,” and so on.
The gate creaked. Vaska, sleepy and irritated, stood by the gatepost. He held his horse by the bridle and let the other animals past, one by one. Stepping carefully on the straw and sniffing at it, they filed out: fillies, yearlings, suckling foals and pregnant mares cautiously carrying their heavy wombs through the gate. The fillies sometimes huddled in twos or threes, laying their heads across each other’s backs and trying to hurry through; for this they were chided nastily by the herdsmen. The suckling foals sometimes dashed under the legs of the wrong mares, neighing loudly in response to their mothers’ short whinnies.
As soon as she was past the gate, the frisky filly bent her head down and to the side, kicked up her hind legs and squealed; still, she did not dare to race out in front of old Zhuldyba, grey and dappled, who with slow, heavy tread, shifting her belly from side to side, walked as always ahead of all the other horses.
In just a few minutes the enclosure, which had been so full of life, stood sadly empty; posts stuck up gloomily under deserted canopies; there was nothing around but trampled straw, matted with manure. Although the piebald gelding must have been used to this desolate scene, it still appeared to depress him. Slowly, as if bowing, he lowered and lifted his head, sighed as deeply as the tightened strap would allow him and hobbled along after the herd on his stiff, crooked legs, bearing old Nester on his bony back.
I know that as soon as we’re out on the road he’ll strike fire and light that wooden pipe of his, with its brass mounting and little chain, thought the gelding. And I’m glad. It makes a pleasant smell, early in the morning, mixed with the dew. Brings to mind many pleasant things. The only trouble is that when the old man sticks that pipe in his mouth he gets ideas, thinks he’s somebody, and then he sits sideways, always sideways—but my side hurts. Oh, well, let him sit how he wants—nothing new in my suffering for the enjoyment of others. I’ve even begun to find a certain equine pleasure in it. After all, the poor fellow can only swagger when there’s no one around, so let him sit sideways, reasoned the gelding and, stepping carefully on his battered legs, walked along the middle of the road.
II
Having driven the horses to the riverside where they were to graze, Nester climbed down from the gelding and unsaddled him. The herd had already begun to disperse through the untrampled meadow, which was covered with dew and with a mist that rose both from the grass and from the river winding round it.
After removing the gelding’s bridle, Nester gave him a little scratch under the neck, in response to which, as a sign of gratitude and pleasure, the gelding closed his eyes. “The old dog likes it,” Nester muttered. In truth, the gelding found no pleasure whatsoever in this scratching and only pretended that he enjoyed it out of courtesy; yet he shook his head in agreement. But then, completely unexpectedly and for no reason at all, Nester—who assumed, perhaps, that too much familiarity might give the gelding a false sense of importance—pushed away the horse’s head and, swinging the bridle, struck the gelding’s bad leg painfully with its buckle. And without saying another word, he went up the hillock towards the stump beside which he usually sat.
The sudden blow grieved the piebald gelding but he did not show it; slowly switching his sparse tail, sniffing at this and that and nibbling at the grass only to distract himself, he made his way to the river. He paid no attention to the young fillies, colts and foals basking joyously in the morning sun; knowing that it was healthiest, especially at his age, to have a good drink before eating, he chose the widest and shallowest spot on the bank, wet his hooves and fetlocks, dipped his muzzle into the water and sucked it up through his torn lips, expanding his sides and happily switching his paltry tail with its bare stump.
Soon the feisty chestnut filly who always teased and bullied the old fellow came close to him, making as if she was attending to some business of her own, when in reality her only intent had been to muddy the water in front of his nose. But the gelding had already drunk his fill and, as if ignorant of the filly’s motivation, calmly drew one foot after the other from the mud, shook his head, stepped away from the youngsters and began to eat. Planting his legs wide apart in various ways, so as not to trample any more grass than necessary, he ate without lifting his head for three hours straight. Having stuffed himself until his belly hung like a sack from his firm, skinny ribs, he positioned his sore legs so that each of them would feel as little pain as possible—especially the right foreleg, which was the weakest—and fell asleep.
Old age can be majestic or it can be ugly; and it can be miserable. But it can also be ugly and majestic at the same time. Such was the piebald gelding’s old age.
The gelding was tall, nearly sixteen hands high. His coat was white with black spots—or had been, since the spots had long ago faded to a dirty brown. There were three of them. The first spot was on the head, extending from a crooked bald spot on the side of the nose to halfway down the neck. His long mane, tangled with burrs, was partly white, partly brownish. Another spot stretched along his off side to the middle of his belly. The third was on the croup, encompassing the upper part of the tail and half his thighs. The rest of the tail was whitish, also dotted with spots. His large bony head, with its deep hollows above the eyes and a saggy, torn black lip, hung low and heavy on a lean and bent neck that looked like a piece of wood. The saggy lip revealed a blackish tongue pressed to the side and the yellow remnants of the lower teeth. The ears, one of which had been slit, drooped limply; only occasionally would they move, half-heartedly, to flick away a fly. A single long tuft of the forelock was tucked behind an ear; the bare forehead was dented and rough; and loose bags of skin hung from the broad jawbones. The veins on the neck and head stood out in knots that shuddered and trembled at the slightest touch of a fly. The expression of his face was sternly patient, deeply thoughtful and pained. His forelegs were bent like bows at the knees; there was swelling above both hooves, and on one leg, where the spot reached halfway down, a bump near the knee the size of a fist. The hind legs were less weathered, but his thighs had apparently been rubbed bald so long ago that hair would never cover them again. And all four legs seemed disproportionately long, on account of his skinniness. His ribs, though firm, stood out so starkly and were so tightly bound that the hide seemed to stick fast to the hollows between them. His back and withers bore the traces of old whippings and there was a fresh sore on his rear, still swollen and festering. The long black dock of his tail, with the vertebrae showing distinctly, stuck out behind him, almost bare. On the brown croup, near the tail, was a scar in the shape of a human palm, like a bite, overgrown with white hair; there was another scar on his shoulder. His hocks and tail were soiled as a result of chronic diarrhoea. The hair all over his body, though short, stood up straight. And yet, despite his repulsive old age, when looking at this horse one could not help but think—and an expert would immediately say—that he had, in his day, been a remarkably fine animal.
An expert would even say that there was only one breed in all of Russia that could provide such broad bones, such enormous thighs, such hooves, such slender legs, such a shapely neck and, most of all, such a skull, such eyes—big, black and clear—with such thoroughbred clusters of veins on head and neck, such excellent skin and hair. Indeed, there was something majestic in the figure of this horse, something majestic in the terrible combination he presented of repellent signs of decrepitude—intensified by the motley colour of his coat—and of the calm, self-confident manner that accompanies beauty and strength.
Like a living ruin, he stood alone in the middle of the dewy meadow, while a short distance away sounded the trampling and snorting, the youthful whinnies and neighs of the scattered herd.
III
The sun had climbed above the forest and its light now sparkled brightly on the grass and the winding river. The dew was drying and gathering in drop
lets; here and there, by the swamp and above the forest, the last of the morning mist rose and faded like smoke. Small clouds grew curly high in the sky, but there was still no wind. Beyond the river, the green rye sprung from the ground in tight little tubes, like stubble, and everything smelt of fresh growth and blossom. From deep in the woods came the hoarse cry of a cuckoo, and Nester, sprawled out upon his back, counted its calls to determine how many years he had left. Larks flew over the rye and the meadow. A belated hare, finding himself amid the herd, leapt into the open meadow, sat himself beside a bush and pricked up his ears. Vaska dozed off with his head in the grass, while the fillies made a still wider circle about him and spread out over the pasture below. The old mares, snorting, laid slick tracks through the dew, each selecting a spot where no one would disturb her; they no longer ate, however, but merely nibbled at the tasty grasses. Imperceptibly, the whole herd was moving in the same direction. Once again, it was old Zhuldyba who, walking sedately ahead of the others, demonstrated the possibility of going forward. Young black Mushka, who had foaled for the first time, kept neighing and, with tail upraised, snorting at her purplish foal who hobbled beside her on quivering legs. The dark bay maiden mare Birdy, smooth and shiny as satin, stood with her head down, her black silky forelock covering her eyes, and toyed with the grass—nipping a tuft, tossing it aside and stamping her leg with its shaggy, dew-drenched fetlock. One of the older foals, evidently playing some game of his own invention, raised his curly little tail like a peacock’s plume and, for the twenty-sixth time, galloped round his mother, who, used to her son’s personality, went on calmly grazing and only occasionally looked askance at him with her large black eye. One of the very youngest foals, black and big-headed, with a forelock that stuck up in surprise and a little tail that was still bent to the side as it had been in his mother’s belly, stood motionless, his ears and dull eyes fixed on the frolicsome, caper-cutting foal, and there was no telling whether he envied or condemned him. Some foals were sucking, prodding their mothers’ udders with their noses; others would, for no discernible reason, ignore their mothers’ calls and run at an awkward little trot in the very opposite direction, as if searching for something, and then, again for no discernible reason, would stop and neigh in a shrill, desperate voice. A few lay on their sides; some were learning to graze; some were scratching themselves behind their ears with their hind legs. Two mares in foal were walking at a distance from the rest—stepping slowly, one leg at a time, and still grazing. It was clear that the herd respected their condition, and none of the youngsters dared to approach and disturb them. And if some frisky foal so much as thought of coming close, one flick of an ear or tail sufficed to show the rascal how improper that would be.