Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 2

by Leo Tolstoy

  Such was his feeling.

  ‘If I had to die like Caius I should have known it was so. An inner voice would have told me so, but there was nothing of the sort in me and I and all my friends felt that our case was quite different from that of Caius. And now here it is!’ he said to himself. ‘It can’t be. It’s impossible! But here it is. How is this? How is one to understand it?’

  He could not understand it, and tried to drive this false, incorrect, morbid thought away and to replace it by other proper and healthy thoughts. But that thought, and not the thought only but the reality itself, seemed to come and confront him.

  And to replace that thought he called up a succession of others, hoping to find in them some support. He tried to get back into the former current of thoughts that had once screened the thought of death from him. But strange to say, all that had formerly shut off, hidden, and destroyed, his consciousness of death, no longer had that effect. Iván Ilých now spent most of his time in attempting to re-establish that old current. He would say to himself: ‘I will take up my duties again – after all I used to live by them.’ And banishing all doubts he would go to the law courts, enter into conversation with his colleagues, and sit carelessly as was his wont, scanning the crowd with a thoughtful look and leaning both his emaciated arms on the arms of his oak chair; bending over as usual to a colleague and drawing his papers nearer he would interchange whispers with him, and then suddenly raising his eyes and sitting erect would pronounce certain words and open the proceedings. But suddenly in the midst of those proceedings the pain in his side, regardless of the stage the proceedings had reached, would begin its own gnawing work. Iván Ilých would turn his attention to it and try to drive the thought of it away, but without success. It would come and stand before him and look at him, and he would be petrified and the light would die out of his eyes, and he would again begin asking himself whether It alone was true. And his colleagues and subordinates would see with surprise and distress that he, the brilliant and subtle judge, was becoming confused and making mistakes. He would shake himself, try to pull himself together, manage somehow to bring the sitting to a close, and return home with the sorrowful consciousness that his judicial labours could not as formerly hide from him what he wanted them to hide, and could not deliver him from It. And what was worst of all was that It drew his attention to itself not in order to make him take some action but only that he should look at It, look it straight in the face: look at it and without doing anything, suffer inexpressibly.

  And to save himself from this condition Iván Ilých looked for consolations – new screens – and new screens were found and for a while seemed to save him, but then they immediately fell to pieces or rather became transparent, as if It penetrated them and nothing could veil It.

  In these latter days he would go into the drawing-room he had arranged – that drawing-room where he had fallen and for the sake of which (how bitterly ridiculous it seemed) he had sacrificed his life – for he knew that his illness originated with that knock. He would enter and see that something had scratched the polished table. He would look for the cause of this and find that it was the bronze ornamentation of an album, that had got bent. He would take up the expensive album which he had lovingly arranged, and feel vexed with his daughter and her friends for their untidiness – for the album was torn here and there and some of the photographs turned upside down. He would put it carefully in order and bend the ornamentation back into position. Then it would occur to him to place all those things in another corner of the room, near the plants. He would call the footman, but his daughter or wife would come to help him. They would not agree, and his wife would contradict him, and he would dispute and grow angry. But that was all right, for then he did not think about It. It was invisible.

  But then, when he was moving something himself, his wife would say: ‘Let the servants do it. You will hurt yourself again.’ And suddenly It would flash through the screen and he would see it. It was just a flash, and he hoped it would disappear, but he would involuntarily pay attention to his side. ‘It sits there as before, gnawing just the same!’ And he could no longer forget It, but could distinctly see it looking at him from behind the flowers. ‘What is it all for?’

  ‘It really is so! I lost my life over that curtain as I might have done when storming a fort. Is that possible? How terrible and how stupid. It can’t be true! It can’t, but it is.’

  He would go to his study, lie down, and again be alone with It: face to face with It. And nothing could be done with It except to look at it and shudder.

  VII

  HOW it happened it is impossible to say because it came about step by step, unnoticed, but in the third month of Iván Ilých’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 this most unpleasant matter, Iván Ilých obtained comfort. Gerásim, the butler’s young assistant, always came in to carry the things out. Gerásim 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 Iván Ilých.

  Once when he got up from the commode too 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.

  Gerásim 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.

  ‘Gerásim!’ said Iván Ilých in a weak voice.

  Gerásim 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 Gerásim’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.

  Iván Ilých was still sitting in the same position in the armchair.

  ‘Gerásim,’ he said when the latter had replaced the freshly-washed utensil. ‘Please come here and help me.’ Gerásim went up to him. ‘Lift me up. It is hard for me to get up, and I have sent Dmítri away.’

  Gerásim 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 Iván Ilých asked to be led to the sofa. Gerásim, without an effort and without apparent pressure, led him, almost lifting him, to the sofa and placed him on it.

  ‘Thank you. How easily and well you do it all!’

&nbs
p; Gerásim smiled again and turned to leave the room. But Iván Ilých 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.’

  Gerásim brought the chair, set it down gently in place, and raised Iván Ilých’s legs on to it. It seemed to Iván Ilých that he felt better while Gerásim was holding up his legs.

  ‘It’s better when my legs are higher,’ he said. ‘Place that cushion under them.’

  Gerásim did so. He again lifted the legs and placed them, and again Iván Ilých felt better while Gerásim held his legs. When he set them down Iván Ilých fancied he felt worse.

  ‘Gerásim,’ he said. ‘Are you busy now?’

  ‘Not at all, sir,’ said Gerásim, 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 to-morrow.’

  ‘Then hold my legs up a bit higher, can you?’

  ‘Of course I can. Why not?’ And Gerásim raised his master’s legs higher and Iván Ilých 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.’

  Iván Ilých told Gerásim 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 Gerásim held his legs up.

  After that Iván Ilých would sometimes call Gerásim and get him to hold his legs on his shoulders, and he liked talking to him. Gerásim did it all easily, willingly, simply, and with a good nature that touched Iván Ilých. Health, strength, and vitality in other people were offensive to him, but Gerásim’s strength and vitality did not mortify but soothed him.

  What tormented Iván Ilých most was the deception, the lie, which for some reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but was simply ill, and that he 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 Iván Ilých. 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 diffusing 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 Gerásim recognized it and pitied him. And so Iván Ilých felt at ease only with him. He felt comforted when Gerásim supported his legs (sometimes all night long) and refused to go to bed, saying: ‘Don’t you worry, Iván Ilých. 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?’ Gerásim 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 Iván Ilých 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 Iván Ilých 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 longed for was impossible, but still he longed for it. And in Gerásim’s attitude towards him there was something akin to what he wished for, and so that attitude comforted him. Iván Ilých wanted to weep, wanted to be petted and cried over, and then his colleague Shébek would come, and instead of weeping and being petted, Iván Ilých 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.

  VIII

  IT was morning. He knew it was morning because Gerásim 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 Iván Ilých, 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. Iván Ilých 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 Vladímir Ivánich’ (the son) ‘who has gone to school. Praskóvya Fëdorovna ordered me to wake her if you asked for her. Shall I do so?’

  ‘No, there’s no need to.’ ‘Perhaps I’d better have some tea,’ he thought, and added aloud: ‘Yes, bring me some tea.’

  Peter went to the door, but Iván Ilých 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 me 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 Iván Ilých groaned not so much with pain, terrible though 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, Iván Ilých 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 Iván Ilých to himself.

  ‘Oh, tea! All right, put it down. Only help me to wash and put on a clean shirt.’

  And Iván Ilých began to wash. With pauses for rest, he washed his hands and then his face, cleaned his teeth, brushed his hair, and 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 k
new 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?’

  Iván Ilých 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?’