The Gambler and Other Stories (Penguin ed.)

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  And indeed, now Pseldonimov was, so to speak, not the second, but the third person. Ivan Ilyich could address his story directly to the desk officer, whom out of necessity he could welcome as an acquaintance, and a close one at that; Pseldonimov meanwhile could just keep silent and quake with reverence. Consequently, the proprieties were being observed. But a story was essential; Ivan Ilyich sensed that; he saw that all the guests were expecting something, that even all the household were crowding both doorways and were practically climbing on top of one another in order to see and hear him. But it was nasty how the desk officer, owing to his stupidity, still wouldn’t sit down.

  ‘Come now!’ Ivan Ilyich said, awkwardly indicating the place next to him on the sofa.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, sir … I’ll be fine here, sir …’ and Akim Petrovich quickly sat down on the chair, which had been placed under him almost on the fly by Pseldonimov who stubbornly remained standing.

  ‘Can you imagine what I’ve been through,’ Ivan Ilyich began, addressing himself exclusively to Akim Petrovich in a somewhat trembling voice that had already become unduly familiar. He was even drawling and separating his words, stressing each syllable, and he began pronouncing the letter ‘a’ somewhat like ‘eh’;24 in a word, he sensed and was aware that he was behaving affectedly, but he could no longer control himself; some external force was having its way. At that moment he was excruciatingly aware of a great many things.

  ‘Can you imagine, I’ve just come from Stepan Nikiforovich’s, maybe you’ve heard of him, the privy councillor. Well … he’s on that commission …’

  Akim Petrovich respectfully leaned forward with his whole body as if to say: ‘How could I not have heard, sir.’

  ‘He’s your neighbour now,’ Ivan Ilyich continued, addressing Pseldonimov for a moment for the sake of propriety and to put him at ease, but he quickly turned away, upon seeing at once from Pseldonimov’s eyes that it made absolutely no difference to him.

  ‘The old man, as you know, has been mad about buying a house his whole life … Well, and he’s bought one. And it’s a nice little house. Yes … And then it was his birthday today, and he had never celebrated it before, you see, he had even kept it a secret from us, didn’t let on about it on account of his stinginess, he-he! But now he’s so happy with his new house that he invited me and Semyon Ivanovich. You know – Shipulenko.’

  Akim Petrovich leaned forward again. He leaned forward with zeal! Ivan Ilyich took some comfort. It had already occurred to him that the desk officer might suspect that at that moment he was an essential point of support for His Excellency. That would have been nastiest of all.

  ‘Well, the three of us sat there for a bit, champagne was served, we talked about business … Well, about this and that … about is-sues … We even ar-gued a bit … He-he!’

  Akim Petrovich respectfully raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Only that’s not the point. I was finally saying goodbye to him, he’s a punctilious old man, goes to bed early, you know, he’s getting old. I go out … and my Trifon’s not there! I become alarmed, and I ask: “Where did Trifon go with my carriage?” It comes to light that he was hoping that I’d stay late and had gone off to the wedding of some godmother or cousin … God only knows. Right here somewhere on the Petersburg Side. And happened to take the carriage with him.’ The General again for propriety’s sake cast a glance at Pseldonimov. The latter immediately bent over double, but not at all as one needs to do for a general. ‘No sympathy, no heart,’ flashed through his head.

  ‘Well, I never!’ Akim Petrovich said, profoundly astonished. A slight rumble of surprise spread through the whole crowd.

  ‘Can you imagine my situation …’ (Ivan Ilyich cast a glance at all of them.) ‘There was nothing to be done, I set off on foot. I thought, I’ll make my way to Bolshoy Prospekt, and then I’ll find some cabby … He-he!’

  ‘Hee-hee-hee!’ Akim Petrovich respectfully rejoined. Again a rumble, but now in a cheerful register, spread through the crowd. At that moment the glass chimney of a wall lamp shattered with a loud crack. Somebody zealously rushed over to take care of it. Pseldonimov roused himself and grimly looked at the lamp, but the general didn’t even notice and everything calmed down.

  ‘I’m walking … and it’s such a beautiful night, so still. Suddenly I hear music, stomping feet, dancing. A policeman satisfies my curiosity – Pseldonimov is getting married. And you, my good man, you’re throwing a party for the whole of the Petersburg Side? Ha-ha,’ he suddenly addressed Pseldonimov once again.

  ‘Hee-hee-hee! Yes, sir,’ Akim Petrovich rejoined; the guests again stirred a bit, but the stupidest thing of all was that Pseldonimov even though he made another bow, now he didn’t even smile, as though he were made of wood. ‘What a fool!’ Ivan Ilyich thought, ‘even an ass would smile now, and everything would have gone along swimmingly.’ Impatience raged in his heart. ‘I think, let’s drop in on my subordinate. After all, he won’t throw me out … whether you are happy about it or not, you must make a guest welcome. Please forgive me, my good man. If I’ve disturbed you, I’ll go … You see, I only wanted to drop in and have a look …’

  But little by little a general movement was beginning. Akim Petrovich looked on with a sweet expression, as if to say, ‘How could you be a disturbance, Your Excellency?’ All of the guests began to stir and started to show the first signs of being at ease. Almost all of the ladies were sitting now. A good and positive sign. The bolder of them were fanning themselves with their kerchiefs. One of them, wearing a shabby velvet dress, was saying something in a deliberately loud voice. The officer, whom she had addressed, wanted to answer her even more loudly, but since the two of them were the only ones being loud, he shrank from doing so. The men, most of whom were clerks with two or three students, exchanged glances as if urging one another to become more at ease; they coughed and even began to take a few steps in different directions. However, nobody was particularly timid: they were all merely shy and almost all of them silently regarded with hostility the personage who had burst in upon them and disturbed their merrymaking. The officer, ashamed of his faint-heartedness, began to approach the table little by little.

  ‘Now listen, my good fellow, allow me to ask, what is your name and patronymic,’ Ivan Ilyich asked Pseldonimov.

  ‘Porfiry Petrov,25 Your Excellency,’ the latter answered, wide-eyed, as if he were on review.

  ‘So, introduce me, to your young bride, Porfiry Petrovich … Take me … I …’

  And he manifested a desire to get up. But Pseldonimov had rushed off as fast as his legs would carry him to the drawing room. The young bride, however, had been standing right there in the doorway, but she hid herself as soon as she heard that they were talking about her. A minute later Pseldonimov led her out by the hand. Everyone stepped aside to make way for them. Ivan Ilyich solemnly rose to his feet and turned to her with the most amiable smile.

  ‘Very, very pleased to make your acquaintance,’ he said with the worldliest of half-bows, ‘particularly on such a day …’

  He gave a most calculating smile. The ladies became pleasantly excited.

  ‘Charmé,’26 the lady in the velvet dress uttered almost aloud.

  The bride stood next to Pseldonimov. She was a skinny little thing, all of seventeen years old, pale, with a very small face and a sharp little nose. Her small eyes, quick and furtive, were not bashful in the least; on the contrary, their staring gaze even had a hint of some sort of menace about them. Evidently, Pseldonimov had not married her for her beauty. She was dressed in a white muslin dress over a pink chemise. Her neck was skinny, her body was like a chicken’s with the bones all sticking out. To the general’s greeting she managed to say absolutely nothing.

  ‘My, what a pretty thing she is,’ he continued in a low voice, as if he were addressing Pseldonimov alone, but deliberately so that the bride could hear as well. But Pseldonimov replied absolutely nothing to this, and didn’t even lurch forward this time. It even seem
ed to Ivan Ilyich that there was something cold in his eyes, suppressed, wily, peculiar, malignant. And yet come what may Ivan Ilyich must strive for sensitivity. After all that’s why he had come.

  ‘But what a pair!’ he thought. ‘However …’

  And once again he addressed the young bride who had taken a seat next to him on the sofa, but to his two or three questions he had not received more than ‘yes’ and ‘no’, and even those, to tell the truth, came grudgingly.

  ‘If only she’d turn bashful,’ he continued to himself. ‘Then I could start joking. Otherwise, my position is hopeless, isn’t it?’ And Akim Petrovich kept silent as well, as if on purpose, and even though it was out of stupidity, it was still unforgivable.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen! I’m afraid I’ve interrupted your party,’ he addressed everybody in general. He sensed that his palms were even sweating.

  ‘No, sir … Don’t worry, Your Excellency, we’ll start again right away, but for now … we’ll take it easy,’ the officer replied. The bride looked at him with pleasure: the officer was still young and was wearing some sort of regimental uniform. Pseldonimov was standing right there, hunched forward, and seemed to be brandishing his hooked nose even more than earlier. He listened and watched, like a lackey who stands holding a fur coat, waiting for his masters to finish their farewells. Ivan Ilyich made that comparison himself; he had become flustered, he felt he was being awkward, terribly awkward, that the ground was slipping out from under his feet, that he had gone somewhere and couldn’t get out, as if he were in the dark.

  Suddenly everybody stepped aside and a short, stout woman appeared, already up in years, simply dressed, although she had dolled herself up, with a large shawl around her shoulders that was pinned at the throat, and wearing a bonnet, which clearly she was not in the habit of doing. She was holding a small, round tray on which there stood a bottle of champagne that was untouched but already uncorked and two glasses, no more and no less. The bottle evidently was intended for only two guests.

  The elderly woman made straight for the general.

  ‘Please forgive me, Your Excellency,’ she said, bowing, ‘but since you did not disdain us, and have done us the honour of coming to my son’s wedding, then would you please be so kind as to drink to the young couple’s health. Don’t disdain us, do us the honour.’

  Ivan Ilyich latched on to her as his salvation. She was not an old woman at all, about forty-five or forty-six, no more. But she had such a kind, ruddy, such an open, round, Russian face, she was smiling so good-naturedly, she bowed so simply that Ivan Ilyich almost took comfort and began to hope.

  ‘So you are the mother of your son?’ he said, getting up from the sofa.

  ‘The mother, Your Excellency,’ Pseldonimov muttered, stretching his long neck and once again brandishing his nose.

  ‘Ah! Very glad, very glad to make your acquaintance.’

  ‘Then you won’t refuse, Your Excellency.’

  ‘With the greatest pleasure.’

  The tray was set down, Pseldonimov ran up and poured the wine. Ivan Ilyich, still standing, took a glass.

  ‘I am particularly, particularly happy on this occasion that I can …’ he began, ‘that I can … bear witness … In a word, as your superior, I wish you, madam’ (he turned to the young bride) ‘and you, Porfiry, my friend – I wish you complete, prosperous and lasting happiness.’

  And it was even with some feeling that he drank his glass, the seventh that evening. Pseldonimov was looking serious and even morose. The General was beginning to feel an excruciating hatred for him.

  ‘And that towering fellow’ (he cast a glance at the officer) ‘just hangs about. At least he could shout “Hurrah!” And then someone else would, and then someone else …’

  ‘And you too, Akim Petrovich, have a drink and congratulate them,’ the old woman added, turning to the desk officer. ‘You’re his superior, he’s your subordinate. Look after my little son, I ask you as a mother. And don’t forget us in the future, my dear Akim Petrovich, you’re a good man.’

  ‘How nice these old Russian women are!’ Ivan Ilyich thought. ‘She’s livened them all up. I’ve always liked the ways of the common folk …’

  At that moment another tray was brought to the table. It was carried by a girl wearing a rustling calico-print dress, which was so new it had yet to be laundered, and a crinoline. She could barely get her arms around the tray it was so large. On it were countless little plates with apples, sweets, meringues, marmalade, walnuts and so on and so forth. The tray until now had been in the drawing room for the enjoyment of all the guests. But now it was carried over to the general alone.

  ‘Please don’t turn up your nose at our victuals, Your Excellency. You’re welcome to whatever we have,’ the old woman repeated, bowing.

  ‘How kind …’ Ivan Ilyich said, and with evident pleasure he took a walnut and cracked it between his fingers. He had already made up his mind to be popular to the end.

  Meanwhile, the young bride suddenly began to giggle.

  ‘What is it, madam?’ Ivan Ilyich asked with a smile, happy to see signs of life.

  ‘It’s Ivan Kostenkinych, sir, he’s making me laugh,’ she replied, casting her eyes downwards.

  The General indeed did discern a fair-haired youth, not at all bad looking, who was hiding on a chair on the other side of the sofa and who was whispering something to Madame Pseldonimov. The youth got to his feet. He, to all appearances, was very bashful and very young.

  ‘I was talking about the “dream-book” Your Excellency,’ he mumbled, as if he were apologizing.

  ‘And which dream-book is that?’ Ivan Ilyich asked indulgently.

  ‘There’s a new dream-book, sir, a literary one, sir. I was telling them, sir, that if you see Mr Panayev27 in your dreams that means you’ll spill coffee on your shirt front, sir.’

  ‘What innocence,’ Ivan Ilyich thought, even with malice. The young man, though he became very flushed from saying this, was incredibly happy to have spoken about Mr Panayev.

  ‘Well, yes, yes, I’ve heard …’ His Excellency rejoined.

  ‘No, here’s something even better,’ another voice said right beside Ivan Ilyich. ‘A new lexicon is being published and they say that Mr Krayevsky will write the articles on Alferaki … and eksposé literature …’28

  This was said by a young man, not the bashful one, but a rather unceremonious one. He was wearing gloves and a white waistcoat and was holding his hat in his hands. He had not been dancing, had an arrogant look about him, because he was one of the contributors to the satirical journal the Brand,29 was used to setting the tone and had ended up at the wedding by accident, invited as an honoured guest of Pseldonimov, with whom he was on familiar terms and with whom just last year he had lived together in poverty in a ‘corner’ they rented from a certain German woman. He did, however, drink vodka and he had already repeatedly absented himself to a cosy back room, to which all knew the way. The general took an awful dislike to him.

  ‘And that’s funny, sir, because,’ suddenly broke in cheerfully the fair-haired youth who had been telling the story about the shirt front and whom the contributor in the white waistcoat looked upon with hatred as a result. ‘It’s funny, Your Excellency, because the author supposes that Mr Krayevsky doesn’t know how to spell and thinks that “exposé literature” should be written “eksposé literature” …’

  But the poor youth was scarcely able to finish. He could see by the general’s eyes that he had understood long before, because the general himself was also embarrassed, as it were, evidently because he had understood it. The young man became incredibly ashamed. He managed to retire to the background somewhere and for the rest of the evening he was very sad. In lieu of him the unceremonious contributor to the Brand came even closer, and it seemed as though he intended to sit somewhere nearby. Such lack of ceremony seemed somewhat ticklish to Ivan Ilyich.

  ‘Yes! Tell me, please, Porfiry,’ he began, just so as to say something,
‘why – I keep meaning to ask you about this personally, why is your surname Pseldonimov and not Pseudonymov? After all, you’re probably Pseudonymov, right?’

  ‘I can’t say with any certainty, Your Excellency,’ Pseldonimov answered.

  ‘It probably got mixed up on his father’s papers when he entered the service, sir, and so he remains Pseldonimov even now,’ Akim Petrovich rejoined. ‘That happens, sir.’

  ‘Cer-tain-ly,’ the general picked up with great feeling, ‘cer-tain-ly, because, just judge for yourself: Pseudonymov, you see, comes from the literary word “pseudonym”. Well, but Pseldonimov doesn’t mean anything.’

  ‘It’s just stupidity, sir,’ Akim Petrovich added.

  ‘But what exactly is just stupidity?’

  ‘The Russian folk, sir; it’s just stupidity that they sometimes change the letters, sir, and sometimes they pronounce things their own way as well, sir. For example, they say imvalid when you ought to say invalid.’