The Gambler and Other Stories (Penguin ed.)

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  Seated at this table were all of the thirty or so guests, some of whom were already completely plastered. The others behaved with a certain offhand, malignant independence – they shouted, all talked loudly, proposing premature toasts, trading volleys of bread bullets with the ladies. One fellow, an unprepossessing person in a soiled frock coat, fell off his chair as soon as he sat down at the table and remained there until supper was over. Another wanted without fail to climb on to the table and propose a toast, and it was only the officer, grabbing him by his coat-tails, who restrained his premature rapture. The supper was quite a mishmash, even though they had hired a cook, the serf of some general: there were galantine, tongue with potatoes, cutlets with green peas, and finally, there was a goose, and blancmange to end it all. To drink there was beer, vodka and sherry. Only the general had a bottle of champagne standing before him, which prompted him to pour some for himself and Akim Petrovich; the latter would not have dared allow himself such liberties at the supper table. The rest of the guests were supposed to drink their toasts with wine from the Caucasus or whatever there happened to be. The table itself was comprised of several tables that had been pushed together, among which there was even a card table. It was covered with several tablecloths, among which there was a coloured one from Yaroslavl. The guests were seated with ladies and gentlemen alternating. Pseldonimov’s mother did not wish to sit at the table; she was too busy fussing and giving orders. But then there appeared a malignant female figure, who had not shown herself earlier, in some sort of reddish silk dress, wearing a bandage on account of a toothache and a very tall bonnet. It turned out that this was the bride’s mother, who had finally agreed to come out of the back room for supper. Until now she had not come out on account of her irreconcilable hostility for Pseldonimov’s mother; but we shall make mention of this later. This lady was looking at the general spitefully, even mockingly, and clearly did not wish to be introduced to him. Ivan Ilyich thought this figure to be extremely suspect. But apart from her there were some other people who were suspect as well and inspired involuntary misgivings and unease. They even seemed to be in some sort of plot together, and one precisely against Ivan Ilyich. At least it seemed so to him, and during the course of the whole supper he became more and more convinced of it. To wit: one gentleman, with a beard, some sort of free artist, was malignant; he even looked at Ivan Ilyich several times and then, after turning to his neighbour, whispered something to him. Another, one of the students, who it was true was already quite drunk, but all the same, judging by certain signs, was suspect. Nor did the medical student bode well. Even the officer himself was not altogether trustworthy. But the contributor to the Brand shone with special and visible hatred: he was sprawled out so in his chair, had such a proud and arrogant look, and chortled with such self-assurance! And although the other guests paid no particular attention to the contributor (who had written only four little poems for the Brand, thus becoming a liberal), and it was even clear that they didn’t like him, when suddenly a little bread bullet fell near Ivan Ilyich, obviously intended for him, he was prepared to stake his life that the culprit was none other than the contributor to the Brand.

  All this, of course, had the most deplorable effect on him.

  Particularly unpleasant was yet another observation: Ivan Ilyich was absolutely convinced that he was beginning to articulate his words unclearly and with difficulty, that he wanted to say a lot, but that his tongue wasn’t moving. Then, that he suddenly began to forget himself, as it were, and the main thing, that he would begin snorting and laughing out of the blue, when there was nothing at all to laugh at. This mood quickly passed after another glass of champagne, which even though Ivan Ilyich had poured it himself, he didn’t wish to drink, and then suddenly drank it somehow, completely by accident. After this glass he suddenly almost wanted to burst into tears. He sensed that he was sinking into the most eccentric sentimentality; once again he began to love everybody, even Pseldonimov, even the contributor to the Brand. He suddenly wanted to embrace them all, to forget everything and be reconciled. And more than that: to tell them everything frankly, everything, everything, namely, what a good and splendid person he was, with what excellent abilities. How he will be of use to the fatherland, how he knew how to make the fair sex laugh, and, the main thing, what a progressive he was, how humanely he was prepared to condescend to everyone, to the most lowly, and, finally, in conclusion, to tell them frankly of the motives that prompted him to come uninvited to Pseldonimov’s, to drink two bottles of his champagne and to grace him with his presence.

  ‘The truth, the sacred truth above all, and frankness! I’ll bring them around with frankness. They’ll believe me, I see it clearly; they even look hostile now, but when I reveal everything to them, I’ll win them over incontrovertibly. They’ll fill their glasses and with a cheer drink to my health. The officer, I’m sure, will break his glass on his spur. They might even shout “Hurrah!” I wouldn’t resist even if they got it into their heads to toss me up into the air hussar fashion,39 it would be quite a good thing even. I’d kiss the bride on the forehead; she’s a sweet girl. Akim Petrovich is also a very good man. Pseldonimov, of course, will improve with time. He lacks that genteel lustre, so to speak … And although, of course, the whole new generation is found wanting when it comes to this delicacy of the heart, but … but I’ll tell them about Russia’s mission today among the other European powers. I’ll mention the peasant question, and … and they’ll all love me, and I’ll leave in glory! …’

  These dreams, of course, were very pleasant, but it was unpleasant that among all these rosy hopes Ivan Ilyich suddenly discovered in himself an unexpected ability: namely, to spit. At least saliva began to suddenly spring from his mouth quite against his will. He noticed this on Akim Petrovich, whose cheek he had showered and who sat not daring to wipe it off right away out of respect. Ivan Ilyich took a napkin and suddenly wiped it himself. But right away this seemed so absurd, so outside the bounds of what is sensible that he fell silent and began to wonder at himself. Akim Petrovich, though he had been drinking, nevertheless sat there as if he’d been scalded. Ivan Ilyich realized now that he had been talking for almost a quarter of an hour to him about some very interesting topic, but that Akim Petrovich, while listening to him, seemed not only embarrassed, but even frightened. Pseldonimov, sitting a chair away from him, had also craned his neck towards him and, with his head cocked to the side, was listening to him with a most unpleasant look. He really seemed to be keeping watch over him. As he glanced round at the guests, he saw that many were looking straight at him and chortling. But the strangest thing of all was that despite all that he wasn’t in the least embarrassed; on the contrary, he took another sip from his glass and suddenly, for all to hear, began to speak.

  ‘I’ve already said!’ he began as loudly as he could, ‘I’ve already said, ladies and gentlemen, to Akim Petrovich just now that Russia … yes, precisely Russia … in a word, you understand that I want to say … Russia is experiencing, in my considered opinion, hu-humaneness …’

  ‘Hu-humaneness!’ resounded from the other end of the table.

  ‘Hu-hu!’

  ‘Phooey, phooey!’

  Ivan Ilyich faltered. Pseldonimov got up from his chair and began to look to see who had shouted. Akim Petrovich began furtively to shake his head as if he were reprimanding the guests. Ivan Ilyich observed this only too well, but suffered torments in silence.

  ‘Humaneness!’ he stubbornly continued. ‘And just this evening … and just this very evening I was telling Stepan Niki-ki-for-o-vich … yes … that … that the renewal, so to speak, of things …’

  ‘Your Excellency!’ a voice loudly resounded from the other end of the table.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ Ivan Ilyich answered, as he tried to make out who had interrupted him with his shouting.

  ‘Absolutely nothing, Your Excellency, I got carried away, continue! Con-tin-ue!’ the voice called out again.

  Ivan Ilyi
ch winced.

  ‘The renewal, so to speak, of these very things …’

  ‘Your Excellency!’ the voice shouted again.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Hello!’

  This time Ivan Ilyich couldn’t bear it. He interrupted his speech and turned to the offender and transgressor of order. It was a student who was still very young, quite drunk and who had already aroused enormous suspicions in him. He had been yelling for some time and had even broken a glass and two plates, maintaining that this was what was done at weddings. At that moment, when Ivan Ilyich turned towards him, the officer sternly began to berate the shouting youth.

  ‘What’s wrong with you, why are you shouting? You should be thrown out, that’s what!’

  ‘It’s not about you, Your Excellency, it’s not about you! Continue!’ the high-spirited schoolboy shouted, sprawled out on his chair. ‘Continue, I’m listening, and am very, ver-ry, ver-ry pleased with you! Com-mend-able! Com-mend-able!’

  ‘The boy’s drunk!’ Pseldonimov suggested in a whisper.

  ‘I can see that he’s drunk, but …’

  ‘I was just telling an amusing story, Your Excellency!’ the officer began, ‘about a certain lieutenant in our company who spoke with his superiors in exactly the same way; so now he’s imitating him. He kept repeating after his superior’s every word: Com-mend-able, com-mend-able! It’s been ten years now since he was discharged from the service on account of this.’

  ‘Who is this lieutenant, then?’

  ‘In our company, Your Excellency, he lost his mind with this “commendable”. At first they admonished him mildly, then he was put under arrest … The superior appealed to his conscience like a father, but all he got was “Com-mend-able, com-mend-able!” And the strange thing about it is that the officer was a manly sort, six feet tall. They were going to bring him to trial, but then they realized he was mad.’

  ‘Well then … he’s a schoolboy. One doesn’t have to be so severe over schoolboy pranks … I, for my part, am prepared to forgive …’

  ‘There was a medical examination, Your Excellency.’

  ‘What! They dissected him?’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, he was quite alive, you see, sir.’

  A loud volley of laughter rang out from practically all the guests, who in the beginning had been behaving themselves with decorum. Ivan Ilyich became furious.

  ‘Gentlemen, gentlemen!’ he cried out, at first without even stammering, ‘I’m perfectly able to apprehend that they don’t dissect a man while he’s alive. I had supposed that in his madness he was no longer alive … that is, that he had died … that is, I wish to say … that you don’t love me … While I love all of you … Yes, and I love Por … Porfiry … I am humiliating myself by saying so …’

  At that moment an enormous wad of saliva flew out of Ivan Ilyich’s mouth and splattered the tablecloth in the most conspicuous place. Pseldonimov rushed to wipe it up with a napkin. This last misfortune had crushed him completely.

  ‘Gentlemen, this is too much!’ he cried out in despair.

  ‘The man’s drunk, Your Excellency,’ Pseldonimov suggested once again.

  ‘Porfiry! I see that you … all … yes! I was saying that I hope … Yes, I challenge all of you to tell me: how have I humiliated myself?’

  Ivan Ilyich was practically in tears.

  ‘Your Excellency, for goodness’ sake!’

  ‘Porfiry, I appeal to you … Tell me, for heaven’s sake, if I came … yes … yes, to your wedding, I had a purpose. I wanted to morally raise … I wanted you to feel. I appeal to all of you: am I very humiliated in your eyes or not?’

  Deathly silence. And that was precisely the problem, that there was deathly silence, and in answer to such a categorical question. ‘Well, why don’t they, why don’t they at least give a shout at a moment like this?’ flashed through His Excellency’s head. But the guests merely exchanged glances. Akim Petrovich sat neither dead nor alive, while Pseldonimov, dumb with fear, kept repeating to himself the horrible question that had occurred to him long before: ‘And what will happen to me tomorrow for all this?’

  Suddenly the contributor to the Brand, already very much in his cups but who until now had been sitting in morose silence, turned to face Ivan Ilyich and with eyes ablaze made his reply in the name of all those gathered there.

  ‘Yes, sir!’ he cried out in a thundering voice. ‘Yes, sir, you have humiliated yourself, yes, sir, you are a retrograde … A retrograde!’

  ‘Come to your senses, young man! Remember who you’re speaking to!’ Ivan Ilyich shouted furiously, once again jumping up from his seat.

  ‘To you, and, in the second place, I’m not a young man … You have come to put on airs and seek popularity.’

  ‘Pseldonimov, what is this!’ Ivan Ilyich exclaimed.

  But Pseldonimov had jumped up in such horror that he stood stock-still and had absolutely no idea what he should do. The guests sat there, petrified with fear, but the artist and the student were applauding, shouting, ‘Bravo, bravo!’

  The contributor continued to shout with irrepressible fury.

  ‘Yes, you came to boast of your humaneness! You’ve interfered with everybody’s merriment. You drank champagne without realizing that it’s too expensive for a civil servant who makes ten roubles a month, and I suspect that you are one of those superiors who are fond of the young wives of his subordinates! Besides, I’m certain that you’re in favour of tax-farming … Yes, yes, yes!’

  ‘Pseldonimov, Pseldonimov!’ Ivan Ilyich cried with his arms outstretched. He felt that the contributor’s every word was like a new dagger in his heart.

  ‘Right away, Your Excellency, please don’t worry!’ Pseldonimov energetically cried out, as he ran over to the contributor, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him away from the table. One would not have expected such physical force from puny Pseldonimov. But the contributor was very drunk, and Pseldonimov was completely sober. Then he punched him in the back several times and threw him out the door.

  ‘You’re all scoundrels!’ the contributor shouted. ‘I’ll publish caricatures of the whole lot of you tomorrow in the Brand!’

  They all jumped up from their seats.

  ‘Your Excellency! Your Excellency!’ cried Pseldonimov, his mother and several of the guests, as they crowded round the general. ‘Your Excellency, stay calm!’

  ‘No, no!’ the general cried, ‘I’m crushed … I came … I wanted, so to speak, to bless. And here’s what I get, this is what I get for everything!’

  He sank down on to his chair, as if he were unconscious, placed both hands on the table and lowered his head on them, right into the plate with the blancmange. The general horror cannot be described. A minute later he got up, evidently wishing to leave, lurched, tripped on a leg of his chair, and fell flat on the floor and started snoring …

  This sometimes happens to people who aren’t drinkers when they get drunk by accident. They remain conscious until the bitter end, and then suddenly fall as if they had been cut down. Ivan Ilyich lay on the floor, having completely lost consciousness. Pseldonimov was pulling his hair and froze stock still in that position. The guests began to hurriedly disperse, each with his own interpretation of the events. It was already around three o’clock in the morning.

  The main thing was that Pseldonimov’s circumstances were really much worse than might have been imagined, the very unattractiveness of the present situation notwithstanding. And while Ivan Ilyich is lying on the floor, and Pseldonimov is standing over him, pulling his hair in despair, we will interrupt the narrative flow of our story and say a few explanatory words about Porfiry Petrovich Pseldonimov.

  No more than a month prior to his wedding he was perishing utterly and irrevocably. He came from the provinces, where his father had at one time served in some capacity and had died while he was on trial. Five months before his wedding, Pseldonimov, who had been perishing in Petersburg for a whole year already, receive
d his ten-rouble-a-month position; it was as if he had been resurrected, in both body and spirit, but he was again soon humbled by his circumstances. In the whole wide world, there remained only two Pseldonimovs, himself and his mother, who had left the provinces after her husband’s death. Mother and son were perishing together in the freezing cold and living on food made from dubious materials. There were days when Pseldonimov would go to the Fontanka for water with a cup in hand so that he could slake his thirst. After receiving his position, he and his mother settled down somewhat in a corner somewhere. She began taking in laundry, while he scraped together his savings of four months to get himself somehow a pair of boots and the semblance of an overcoat. And the misfortunes he had to endure in the office: his superiors would approach him to ask whether it had been a long time since he had been to the bathhouse. A rumour circulated about him that there were nests of bedbugs beneath the collar of his uniform. But Pseldonimov was a man of firm character. In appearance he was submissive and quiet; he had very little education, he was almost never heard to take part in conversation. I don’t know positively: whether he thought, whether he made plans and systems, whether he dreamed about anything. But to compensate for that he had developed some sort of instinctive, unshakeable, unconscious resolve to make his way out of his nasty situation. He had the stubbornness of an ant: if you destroy an anthill, they’ll build it all over again at once, destroy it again – and they’ll begin again, and so on tirelessly. This was a being, who was methodical and thrifty. It was written on his face that he would make his way, build his nest and perhaps even save up enough for an emergency. In the whole world only his mother loved him and she loved him to death. She was a firm woman, tireless, hard-working and yet kind. And they would have lived like that in their corner perhaps for another five or six years until their circumstances had changed if they hadn’t crossed paths with retired Titular Councillor Mlekopitayev, formerly a paymaster who had served at one time in their province, and had recently come to Petersburg where he and his family had settled. He knew Pseldonimov and had been somehow obliged to his father for something. He had some money, of course, not very much, but still he had some; nobody knew how much he really had, not his wife, or his elder daughter, or his relatives. He had two daughters, and since he was a terrible bully, a drunkard, domestic tyrant and, moreover, a sickly man, he suddenly took it into his head to marry off one of his daughters to Pseldonimov: ‘I know him,’ he said, ‘his father was a good man, and the son will be a good man.’ Whatever Mlekopitayev wanted, he did; it was no sooner said than done. He was a very strange sort of bully. He spent most of his time sitting in an armchair, since he had lost the use of his legs with some illness, which didn’t prevent him, however, from drinking vodka. For days on end he would drink and curse. He was a malicious man; he needed without fail to have somebody to torment non-stop. For this purpose he kept under his roof several distant relatives: his own sister, who was sick and a shrew; his wife’s two sisters, who were malicious chatterboxes; and then there was his old aunt who had somehow managed to break a rib. He kept on another sponger, a Russified German woman, on account of her talent for telling him stories from the One Thousand and One Nights. All his pleasure consisted in needling these unfortunate hangers-on, to abuse them day and night for all he was worth, even though not one of them, including his wife, who was born with toothache, dared to so much as squeak in his presence. He would get them to fight among themselves, make up, and spread rumours and dissent among them, and then rejoice when he saw that they almost came to blows. He was quite delighted when his elder daughter, who had lived in poverty for ten years with her husband, some officer, and who had finally been widowed, came to live with him with her three sickly children. He couldn’t stand her children, but since their appearance increased the material upon which he could conduct his daily experiments, the old man was quite pleased. This whole heap of malicious women and sickly children along with their tormentor were crowded together in a wooden house on the Petersburg Side, not getting enough to eat because the old man was stingy and doled out money kopecks at a time, though he didn’t begrudge himself vodka; they didn’t get enough sleep because the old man suffered from insomnia and demanded to be entertained. In a word, they all lived in poverty and cursed their fate. It was at this time that Mlekopitayev happened upon Pseldonimov. He was struck by his long nose and submissive air. His frail and plain younger daughter had just turned seventeen. Even though she at one time had attended some sort of German Schule,40 she didn’t get much out of it beyond her abc’s. Then she grew up, scrofulous and emaciated under the crutch of her lame and drunken parent and amidst the squall of domestic gossip, spying and slander. She had never had any girlfriends, or any brains. She had been wanting to get married for a long time now. In company she was taciturn, but at home together with her mama and the hangers-on she was malicious and a shrill nag. She particularly liked to pinch and punch her sister’s children, sneaking up on them for sugar and bread they had made off with, which was the cause of an endless and unquenchable quarrel with her older sister. The old man himself offered her to Pseldonimov. Poor though he was, the latter nevertheless asked for some time to think it over. He and his mother pondered on it for quite a while. But the house was to be registered in the bride’s name, and even though it was wooden, and even though it was only one storey and a bit foul, it was still worth something. On top of that there was the 400 roubles – when could you ever save up that much yourself! ‘After all, why am I taking a man into my house,’ the drunken bully would shout. ‘In the first place, because you’re all women and I’m sick of having only women. I want Pseldonimov to dance to my tune as well, because I am his benefactor. In the second place, I’m taking him in because none of you wants it and you’re all angry. So I’ll do it to spite you. And I’ll do what I’ve said! And you, Porfirka, beat her when she’s your wife; she’s had seven demons sitting inside her since birth. Drive them out, and I’ll get the stick ready for you …’