Pseldonimov kept silent, but he had already made up his mind. He and his mother were received into the house before the wedding, washed up, dressed, shod, given money for the wedding. The old man was their protector, perhaps because the entire household had it in for them. He even liked old lady Pseldonimov, so he refrained from needling her. However, a week before the wedding he made Pseldonimov dance the kazachok.41 ‘Well, that’s enough, I merely wanted to see that you didn’t forget yourself with me,’ he said when the dance had come to an end. He gave them only just enough money for the wedding and invited all his relatives and acquaintances. On Pseldonimov’s side there was only the contributor to the Brand and Akim Petrovich, the guest of honour. Pseldonimov knew only too well that his bride loathed him and that she really wanted to marry the officer, and not him. But he bore it all, because that was the agreement with his mother. The entire wedding day and all evening the old man had been getting drunk and cursed using the nastiest words. On the occasion of the wedding, the entire family took shelter in the back rooms and were crowded together so that it stank. The front rooms were reserved for the party and supper. At last, when the old man fell asleep, completely drunk, at about eleven o’clock in the evening, the bride’s mother, who had particularly been angry with Pseldonimov’s mother that day, made up her mind to exchange her wrath for kindness and go out to the party and supper. The appearance of Ivan Ilyich upset everything. Mrs Mlekopitayev became embarrassed, got offended and began cursing them for not informing her that the general himself had been invited. They assured her that he had come on his own, uninvited – she was so stupid that she wouldn’t believe them. The situation called for champagne. Pseldonimov’s mother had only one rouble, Pseldonimov didn’t have a single kopeck. They had to humble themselves before the malevolent old Mlekopitayev woman, beg for money first for one bottle, then another. They portrayed for her the future of his relationships in the office, his career; they appealed to her conscience. In the end she gave some of her own money, but she made Pseldonimov drink such a cup of gall and vinegar42 that he had already repeatedly run into the little room, where the bridal bed was prepared, pulled his hair in silence and threw himself head first on to the bed intended for heavenly delights, trembling all over with impotent rage. Yes! Ivan Ilyich did not know what those two bottles of Jackson had cost, which he had drunk that night. What then was Pseldonimov’s horror, anguish and even despair, when the episode with Ivan Ilyich ended in such an unexpected way. He again foresaw trouble and maybe a whole night of screams and tears from the capricious new bride, and reproaches from the bride’s dim-witted kin. His head was already aching without that, and the fumes and darkness had already clouded his eyes. And now Ivan Ilyich required help: he’d need to find, at three o’clock in the morning, a doctor or carriage to take him home, and it must be a carriage, because they couldn’t send a person like him home in a droshky43 in a state like that. But where was he to get money for a carriage? Mrs Mlekopitayev, infuriated that the general had not said two words to her and hadn’t even looked at her during supper, announced that she didn’t have a single kopeck. Perhaps she really didn’t have a single kopeck. Where was he to get it? What was he to do? Yes, he had plenty of reasons for pulling his hair.
Meanwhile, for the time being they carried Ivan Ilyich to the small leather sofa that stood right there in the dining room. While they cleared the tables and put them back, Pseldonimov rushed about from corner to corner trying to borrow some money – he even tried to borrow from the servant girl – but nobody had any. He even risked bothering Akim Petrovich, who had stayed longer than the others. But he, though he was a kind man, upon hearing the word ‘money’ became so perplexed and so frightened, that he talked the most unexpected rubbish.
‘Another time I would be delighted,’ he mumbled, ‘but now … really, excuse me …’
And, after picking up his hat, he ran out of the house as quickly as he could. Only the kind-hearted youth, who had been telling the story about the dream-book, proved to be of any use, and inopportunely at that. He had also stayed longer than the rest, taking a sincere interest in Pseldonimov’s misfortunes. In the end, Pseldonimov, his mother and the youth decided in general council not to send for a doctor, rather to send for a carriage and have the patient taken home, and for the time being, until the carriage arrived, to try some home remedies, such as daubing his temples and head with cold water, applying ice to the top of his head, and so forth. Pseldonimov’s mother took this upon herself. The youth flew off in search of a carriage. Since at that hour there wasn’t even a droshky on the Petersburg Side, he had to go some distance for the cabbies at the coaching inn and wake up the drivers. They began bargaining, saying that at this hour even five roubles was too little. They agreed, however, on three. But it was almost four o’clock when the youth arrived in the hired carriage at Pseldonimov’s, where they had changed their minds long before. It turned out that Ivan Ilyich, who was still unconscious, had become so ill, was moaning and tossing about so that it had become absolutely impossible and even risky to move him or to have him taken home in this condition. ‘What will happen next?’ said the absolutely disheartened Pseldonimov. What was he to do? A new question arose. If they were to keep the sick man in their house, then where would they move him to and where could they put him? There were only two beds in the whole house: one was enormous, a double bed on which old man Mlekopitayev slept with his spouse, and the other one was a new purchase, imitation walnut, also a double bed, and intended for the newlyweds. All of the other inhabitants, or, rather, ladies who inhabited the house, slept on the floor, side by side, mostly on feather beds, already somewhat dilapidated and foul-smelling, that is, altogether unseemly, and those were in limited supply; there weren’t even enough to go around. Where could they put the sick man? A feather bed perhaps might be found – one could be dragged out from under somebody if worse comes to worst, but where and on what could they make up the bed? It turned out that the bed would need to be in the drawing room, since that room was the most removed from the bowels of the family and had its own exit. But what could it be made up on? Surely not chairs. Everybody knows that beds are made up on chairs only for schoolboys when they come home for a Saturday, but for such a person as Ivan Ilyich that would be disrespectful. What would he say tomorrow when he saw that he had been sleeping on chairs? Pseldonimov wouldn’t even hear of it. Only one thing remained: to have him taken to the bridal bed. This bridal bed, as we said earlier, was set up in the small room, right off the dining room. On the bed there was a newly purchased, brand-new double mattress, clean sheets, four pink calico pillows in muslin pillowcases with frilled trim. The blanket was pink satin with a quilted pattern. Muslin curtains hung from a golden ring above. In a word, all was as it should be, and the guests, almost all of whom had visited the bedroom, praised the appointments. The bride, even though she couldn’t stand Pseldonimov, during the course of the evening had popped in here furtively several times to see it. What was her indignation, her fury when she learned that they wanted to move to her bridal bed the sick man who had come down with what looked like cholerine!44 The mother of the bride took her part, cursing and promising to complain to her husband tomorrow; but Pseldonimov showed what he was worth and stood his ground: Ivan Ilyich was moved and a bed for the newlyweds was made on the chairs. The bride whined and was all set to pinch, but she didn’t dare disobey: her papa had a crutch with which she was all too familiar, and she knew that her papa would be certain to demand a detailed accounting tomorrow. As consolation the pink blanket and pillows in their muslin cases were brought to the dining room. At this moment the youth arrived with the carriage; upon learning that the carriage was no longer required, he became terribly frightened. That meant paying for it himself, and he had never had so much as a ten-kopeck piece. Pseldonimov announced his complete bankruptcy. They tried persuading the cabbie, but he began making a row and even knocked on the shutters. I don’t know the details of how it all ended. It seems that the
youth set off in this carriage as a hostage to Peski, to Fourth Rozhdestvensky Street,45 where he hoped to rouse a student who was spending the night with friends, and see if he had any money. It was well past four o’clock in the morning when the young people were left alone and the door to the drawing room was locked. Pseldonimov’s mother stayed by the sufferer’s bedside all night long. She retired on the floor, on a little rug, and covered herself with a fur coat, but she couldn’t sleep, because she kept having to get up: Ivan Ilyich had a terribly upset stomach. Mrs Pseldonimov, a woman who was steadfast and magnanimous, undressed him herself, took off all his clothes and looked after him as if he were her own son, carrying out the necessary crockery from the bedroom through the hallway and back again all night long. And still the misfortunes of this night were far from over.
Not ten minutes had passed since the young couple had been locked up in the drawing room alone when suddenly a bloodcurdling cry was heard, not a comforting cry, but of the most malignant sort. The cries were followed by a noise, a crash, as if some chairs had fallen, and in a flash a whole crowd of clamouring and frightened women in all manner of dishabille burst into the room, which was still dark. These women were: the mother of the bride, her older sister, who for the time being had abandoned her sick children, her three aunts, even the one with the broken rib had dragged herself along. Even the cook was there on the spot, and the German hanger-on, who told fairy tales and from under whom they had dragged by force her own feather bed for the newlyweds, the best one in the house and which comprised all she owned, even she dragged herself along with the others. All these estimable and perspicacious women had stolen out of the kitchen through the hallway on tiptoe a quarter of an hour ago and were eavesdropping in the anteroom, devoured by the most inexplicable curiosity. Now, somebody hastily lit a candle and everyone was presented with the most unexpected sight. The chairs, which had propped up the feather bed only at the edges and which couldn’t support the double weight, had moved apart and the feather bed fell in between them on to the floor. The bride whimpered with fury; this time she was offended to the bottom of her heart. Pseldonimov, morally crushed, stood there like a criminal, whose villainy had been exposed. He didn’t even try to justify himself. Exclamations and screams could be heard from all sides. Pseldonimov’s mother came running at the noise, but this time the bride’s mama had gained the upper hand. She began by showering Pseldonimov with strange and for the most part unjust reproaches on the theme: ‘What sort of husband are you after this, my dear? What are you good for, my dear, after such shame?’ – and so on and, finally, after taking her daughter by the hand, she led her away from her husband, to her own room, after personally taking responsibility for explaining to her stern father who would be demanding his accounting tomorrow. Everybody cleared off after her, oohing and aahing and shaking their heads. Only his mother remained with Pseldonimov and tried to console him. But he immediately drove her away.
He wasn’t in the mood for consolation. He made his way to the sofa and sat down, lost in the gloomiest meditation, just as he was, barefoot and wearing only the most essential bits of underwear. His thoughts crossed and got muddled in his head. From time to time he would automatically, as it were, take a look around the room, where only recently the dancers had been going at it furiously and where cigarette smoke still hung in the air. Cigarette butts and sweet wrappers still littered the splattered and soiled floor. The ruins of the marriage bed and the overturned chairs bore witness to the transitory nature of the best and surest of earthly hopes and dreams. Thus he sat for almost an hour. Distressing questions kept occurring to him, for example: What awaited him at the office now? He was painfully aware that he needed to change his place of work no matter what, that remaining at his present position was impossible, precisely as a consequence of everything that had happened this evening. He also recalled Mlekopitayev, who tomorrow might make him dance the kazachok again, in order to test his meekness. He realized as well that even though Mlekopitayev had given him fifty roubles for the wedding day, which had been spent down to the last kopeck, he hadn’t even suggested giving him the dowry of 400 roubles, nor had there been any mention of it. And the house itself had still not been formally registered. He recalled as well his wife, who had forsaken him at the most critical moment of his life, and the tall officer who had got down on one knee before his wife. He had managed to notice that; and he thought about the seven demons, who were sitting inside his wife, according to the testimony of her own parent, and about the stick prepared for their expulsion … Of course, he felt that he was strong enough to bear a good deal, but fate had dealt him such surprises that, in the end, he might doubt his own strength.
Thus Pseldonimov grieved. Meanwhile, the candle end was going out. Its flickering light, which fell directly on Pseldonimov’s profile, reflected him in colossal proportions on the wall, with his long neck, hooked nose and the two tufts of hair that stood up on his forehead and on the back of his head. Finally, when he got a whiff of the morning freshness, he got up, chilled to the bone and spiritually benumbed, made his way to the feather bed that was lying between the two chairs, and without tidying it, without putting out the candle end and without even putting a pillow under his head, he crawled on all fours on to the bed and fell into that leaden, dead sleep, the likes of which is slept by those sentenced to be flogged to death on the square46 the next day.
On the other hand, what could compare with the agonizing night that Ivan Ilyich spent on the unfortunate Pseldonimov’s bridal bed! For some time the headache, vomiting and other most unpleasant attacks did not leave him for a minute. It was the torments of hell. Consciousness, although barely more than a flickering in his head, illumined such multitudes of horrors, such gloomy and disgusting pictures, that it would have been better had he not regained consciousness. However, everything was still confused in his head. He recognized, for example, Pseldonimov’s mother – he heard her forgiving admonitions, such as: ‘Be patient, my darling, be patient, my dear sir, you’ll like it when you get used to it’; he recognized her but couldn’t, however, logically account for her being near him. Disgusting apparitions appeared before him: most often Semyon Ivanych would appear, but as he peered more intently he noticed that it wasn’t Semyon Ivanych at all, but Pseldonimov’s nose. He also caught fleeting glimpses of the free artist, and the officer, and the old woman with the bandaged cheek. More than anything he was intrigued by the golden ring hanging above his head from which the curtains hung. He could discern it clearly by the dim light of the candle end that illuminated the room, and he kept trying to fathom it mentally: What purpose does this ring serve? Why is it here? What does it signify? He asked the old woman about it several times, but he obviously couldn’t say what he wanted to say, and she evidently didn’t understand him, no matter how hard he tried to explain. Finally, when it was almost morning, the attacks stopped and he fell asleep; he slept soundly, without any dreams. He slept for about an hour and when he woke up he had almost fully regained consciousness, his head ached unbearably and he had the nastiest taste in his mouth and on his tongue, which had turned into a piece of flannel. He sat up in the bed, looked around and started thinking. The pale light of the dawning day, which had stolen through the cracks in the shutters, trembled on the wall in narrow stripes. It was about seven o’clock in the morning. But when Ivan Ilyich suddenly realized and remembered everything that had happened to him since last evening; when he remembered all the adventures at the supper table, his stillborn heroic deed, his speech at the table; when he imagined all at once with horrible clarity everything that might now come of this, everything they would now say about him and what they would think; when he looked around and saw, finally, to what a sad and sorry state he had reduced the peaceful bridal bed of his subordinate – oh, then such terrible shame, such torments filled his heart that he cried out, covered his face with his hands and in despair threw himself down on the pillow. A minute later he jumped up from the bed, saw his clothes there on
the chair, neatly folded and already cleaned, grabbed them and quickly, frantically, began pulling them on, all the while looking over his shoulder and horribly afraid of something. Right there on another chair lay his fur coat, his hat, and his yellow gloves were in his hat. He wanted to slip away quietly. But suddenly the door opened and old lady Pseldonimov walked in, carrying an earthenware basin and a jug. A towel hung from her shoulder. She put down the jug and without further ado announced that he most definitely must wash.
The Gambler and Other Stories (Penguin ed.) Page 17