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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021
The perfect introduction to the many talents of this iconic Russian writer: six short stories ranging from satire to tragedyDostevsky was a writer of unparalleld psychological intensity, capable of evoking startling absurdity and scorching social satire. In this collection of newly translated stories, scenes from the turbulent underbelly of St Petersburg are shot through with an acerbic, unforgiving humour, only to soften into moments of tragedy and unexpected tenderness.An arrogant nobleman disgraces himself, and betrays his ideals, at an aide's wedding. A struggling writer stumbles upon a cemetery where the dead talk to each other. A civil servant finds unexpected clarity from inside the belly of a crocodile. These stories, by turns both wickedly sharp and unexpectedly charming, illuminate Dostoevsky's dazzling versatility as a writer.
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A BAD BUSINESS
ESSENTIAL STORIES
Translated from the Russian by Nicolas Pasternak Slater and Maya Slater
PUSHKIN PRESS LONDON
CONTENTS
A BAD BUSINESS
A Story
This bad business occurred at the very time when our beloved Fatherland, driven on with such irresistible force, and filled with such touchingly naïve enthusiasm, was just embarking on its regeneration, bearing with it all its valiant sons intent on their eager pursuit of new destinies and aspirations. It so happened, on a clear frosty winter evening—after eleven at night, in fact—that three extremely respectable gentlemen were seated in a comfortable, luxuriously appointed room in a splendid two-storey mansion on the Petersburg Side, engaged in an admirable and serious-minded conversation on a highly intriguing subject. All three gentlemen had the rank of general. They were sitting in three splendid cushioned armchairs round a little table, and as they talked they took quiet, luxurious sips of champagne. The bottle, 8in a silver ice bucket, stood on the table in front of them. They were there because their host, Privy Councillor Stepan Nikiforovich Nikiforov, an old bachelor of about sixty-five, was celebrating his house-warming in the house he had just bought; and this event happened to coincide with his birthday, which he never used to celebrate. Not that this celebration was all that splendid: as we have seen, there were only two guests, both of them former colleagues and subordinates of his in the service. One was Active State Councillor Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko, and the other, also an active state councillor, was Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky. They had arrived about nine, had their tea, then moved on to the wine, and knew that at precisely eleven thirty they would have to set off for home. Their host had been a stickler for regularity all his life.
A word about the host. He had begun his career as a petty clerk with no backing, quietly carried on his daily grind for a full forty-five years, well aware how high he could rise in his job; he hated reaching for the stars, although he had already earned two of them, and particularly loathed expressing his personal opinion on any subject at all. He was honest—that is to say, he had never had occasion to do anything particularly dishonest; he was unmarried, because he was selfish; was far from stupid, but hated showing his intelligence; 9particularly disliked shoddiness, and also fervour, which he regarded as moral shoddiness; and towards the end of his life he had totally sunk into a kind of delicious, indolent self-indulgence and systematic reclusiveness. He did sometimes go out to visit people of the better class, but ever since he was a young man he had always hated entertaining guests; and lately, when not playing patience, he would make do with the company of his dining-room clock, spending whole evenings placidly dozing in his armchair and listening to it ticking away under its glass dome on the mantelpiece. He looked extremely respectable and was well shaven, so that he seemed younger than his years and very well preserved, with the promise of living many years more; his manners were impeccably gentlemanly. His post was a pretty comfortable one, sitting on some committee and signing things. In short, he was thought to be a splendid fellow. He used to have only one passion, or rather one fervent longing, which was to have a house of his own, and one built as a gentleman’s home rather than a capital investment. And now his wish had come true: he had found and bought himself a house on the Petersburg Side—true, it was quite a way out, but it had a garden, and the house was elegant. The new owner reasoned that it was all the better for being far out: he disliked 10entertaining, and if he himself had to drive out on a visit or to his office, he had a smart chocolate-coloured two-seater carriage, and his coachman Mikhey, and a pair of small but tough and handsome horses. All this he had acquired honestly by forty years of meticulous frugality, and it gladdened his heart.
That was why, once he had bought and moved into his new home, Stepan Nikiforovich’s phlegmatic soul was filled with such joy that he actually invited guests to celebrate his birthday, which he had hitherto carefully kept secret from even his closest friends. In fact he had particular designs on one of his two guests. He himself had moved into the upper floor of his new house, but the lower floor, constructed and laid out in exactly the same way, was in want of a tenant. Stepan Nikiforovich was counting on Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko, and in the course of this evening he had already twice alluded to the matter. But Semyon Ivanovich had not risen to the bait. He, too, was a man who had spent long years making his way in the service. He had black hair and side whiskers and a permanently bilious tinge to his face. He was a married man, a morose stay-at-home who terrorized his household. He performed his work with confidence, and he too knew exactly how high he would rise, and more importantly, the heights he would never reach. He had 11a good position, and was sitting tight. He viewed the latest reforms with a certain distaste, but was not particularly alarmed by them; he was very sure of himself, and when Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky held forth on these modern topics, he listened to him with malicious derision. But all three of them were a little tipsy by now, so even Stepan Nikiforovich condescended to engage in a mild argument with Pralinsky concerning the reforms. But a few words here about his Excellency Councillor Pralinsky, particularly as he is the principal hero of the story that follows.
Active State Councillor Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky had only been his Excellency for four months. In other words, he was a young general. Young in years, too—not more than forty-three, and he looked (and liked to look) younger still. He was a tall, handsome man, who dressed elegantly and prided himself on the refinement and respectability of his costume. He had an important decoration round his neck, which he wore with consummate style. Even as a child he had had the knack of acquiring the airs and graces of the beau monde, and now, still a bachelor, he dreamt of a wealthy bride from those circles. And he dreamt of many other things too, though he was far from stupid. At times he was a great talker, and even liked to pose as a parliamentarian. He came from a good family: 12the son of a general, he had been brought up in the lap of luxury, dressed in velvet and fine linen even as a little boy. Educated at an aristocratic school, he had left it not much the wiser. Still, he had had a successful career and had risen to the rank of general. The authorities regarded him as a capable person, and had high hopes of him. Stepan Nikiforovich, under whom he had served from the start of his career and almost up to his promotion to general, had never regarded him as much of a practical man, and had no expectations of him whatsoever. But he liked the fact that Ivan Ilyich came from a good family, possessed a fortune (that is, a large block of rental properties with a manager), was related to influential people, and furthermore had a dignified air about him. Privately, Stepan Nikiforovich looked down on him as being too imaginative and frivolous. Ivan Ilyich himself sometimes felt that he was too vain and perhaps too touchy. Strangely enough, he was occasionally troubled by a morbidly tender conscience, and even a slight sense of remorse. From time to time he would acknowledge bitterly and with an aching heart that he was not really flying as high as he imagined. At such moments he would become depressed, particularly if his piles were troubling him, and say that his life was une existence manquée. He would—privately of course—lose 13faith in his parliamentary skills, calling himself a parleur and a phraseur. All this, of course, did him great credit, but it didn’t stop him from holding his head high again half an hour later, reassuring himself more obstinately and conceitedly than ever, and resolving that he would make a name for himself yet, and become not only a great official but a statesman whom Russia would long remember. Sometimes he even dreamt of monuments. All this shows that Ivan Ilyich aimed high, though he kept his vague dreams and hopes hidden deep in his heart—and they actually rather scared him. In a word, he was a kind-hearted man, with the soul of a poet. In recent years his moments of morbid disillusionment had become more frequent. He had grown particularly irritable and touchy, always ready to take offence at anyone who disagreed with him. But the new Russian reforms had aroused great hopes in him. His promotion to general had done the rest. He livened up, and held his head high. He had begun to speak volubly and eloquently, discussing the very latest topics, which he had unexpectedly assimilated with amazing alacrity and now espoused with vigour. He looked out for opportunities to speak, drove around town, and in many places had already earned the reputation of an out-and-out liberal, which he found very flattering. 14On this particular evening, after four glasses, he had let himself go more than ever. Having not seen Stepan Nikiforovich for some time, he was now keen to change his chief’s mind on every subject, though he had hitherto always respected him and even obeyed him. For some reason he regarded him as a reactionary, and attacked him very fiercely. Stepan Nikiforovich scarcely replied, but just listened sardonically, although the topic interested him. Ivan Ilyich was becoming worked up, and in the heat of this imaginary dispute he sipped from his glass more often than he should. When this happened, Stepan Nikiforovich would take the bottle and top up his glass at once, which for some reason annoyed Ivan Ilyich, particularly as Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko, whom he particularly despised and also feared as a spiteful cynic, was sitting to one side of him, maintaining a treacherous silence and smiling more often than he should. ‘They seem to be taking me for a schoolboy’—the thought flashed through his head.
‘No, sir, it was time, high time,’ he went on vehemently, ‘we’ve left it far too long, and to my mind a humane approach is the most important thing, a humane attitude towards our subordinates, remembering that they’re human beings too. A humane attitude will rescue everything, it will carry everything …’15
‘He-he-he!’ came from Semyon Ivanovich’s direction.
‘But why are you laying into us like this?’ Stepan Nikiforovich finally protested, with a friendly smile. ‘I must confess, Ivan Ilyich, I still can’t make out what you’re being good enough to explain to us. You talk about being humane. That means loving one’s fellow man, does it?’
‘Yes, loving one’s fellow man, if you like. I—’
‘Allow me. As far as I can see, that isn’t the only thing. It’s always been right to love one’s fellow men. But the reforms go beyond that. There are questions that arise relating to the peasantry, the courts, the economy, government contracts, morality, and … and … and there’s no end to them, these questions, and if you adopt them all at once, that could cause great … instability, so to speak. That’s what’s been worrying us, not just the question of being humane.’
‘Yes, it all goes deeper,’ remarked Semyon Ivanovich.
‘I understand that perfectly well, and allow me to point out, Semyon Ivanovich, that I will certainly not accept that your understanding is superior to mine,’ said Ivan Ilyich caustically and with unnecessary sharpness. ‘Nevertheless, I shall make bold to point 16out to you too, Stepan Nikiforovich, that you haven’t understood me either.’
‘No, I haven’t.’
‘And yet I maintain, and everywhere promote the idea, that a humane attitude, specifically towards one’s subordinates, from official to clerk, from clerk to domestic servant, from servant to peasant—a humane attitude, I say, can serve, as it were, as the cornerstone of the coming reforms, and of the reformation of things in general. Why? Because. Take this syllogism: I am humane, therefore I am loved. I am loved, therefore people feel confidence in me. They feel confidence, therefore they believe. They believe, therefore they love … or no, I mean to say, if they believe, then they will believe in the reforms, they’ll grasp, as it were, the very nub of the matter, they will, as it were, embrace each other, in the moral sense, and settle the whole thing completely in a friendly way. Why are you laughing, Semyon Ivanovich? Don’t you understand?’
Stepan Nikiforovich said nothing, but raised his eyebrows; he was surprised.
‘I’m afraid I must have had a little too much to drink,’ said Semyon Ivanovich venomously, ‘so I’m slow on the uptake. Haven’t got all my wits about me.’
Ivan Ilyich flinched. 17
‘We won’t hold out,’ Stepan Nikiforovich suddenly pronounced after some brief reflection.
‘What do you mean, we won’t hold out?’ demanded Ivan Ilyich, taken aback by Stepan Nikiforovich’s unexpected and abrupt remark.
‘Just that—we won’t hold out.’ Stepan Nikiforovich evidently did not want to expand further.
‘You’re not alluding to new wine in new wineskins, are you?’ returned Ivan Ilyich ironically. ‘Because no, I can certainly answer for myself.’
At that point the clock struck half past eleven.
‘People sit on and on, but eventually they leave,’ said Semyon Ivanovich, preparing to get up. But Ivan Ilyich forestalled him, got up from the table himself, and picked up his sable cap from the mantelpiece. He seemed offended.
‘So, Semyon Ivanich, will you think it over?’ asked Stepan Nikiforovich, seeing his guests to the door.
‘About the little apartment, you mean? Yes, yes, I’ll think about it.’
‘Well, when you’ve made up your mind, let me know as soon as you can.’
‘More business?’ asked Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky, in an affable but rather ingratiating voice, twisting his cap in his hands. He felt ignored.18
Stepan Nikiforovich raised his eyebrows and said nothing, making it clear that he was not detaining his guests. Semyon Ivanovich hastily took his leave.
‘But … well … just as you like, then … if you can’t understand a simple piece of courtesy,’ Pralinsky thought, holding out his hand to Stepan Nikiforovich in a decidedly non-committal way.
In the hallway Ivan Ilyich wrapped himself up in his expensive lightweight fur coat, trying for some reason not to notice Semyon Ivanovich’s shabby raccoon, and they set off down the stairs.
‘The old man seemed offended,’ said Ivan Ilyich to Semyon Ivanovich, who was saying nothing.
‘No, why should he be?’ replied the other, cool and composed.
‘Servile creep!’ thought Ivan Ilyich.
They went out to the front steps, and Semyon Ivanich’s sleigh drew up, drawn by an unimpressive-looking colt.
‘What on earth! Where the devil has Trifon got to with my carriage?’ yelled Ivan Ilyich Pralinsky, not seeing his conveyance.
They looked this way and that, but there was no carriage. Stepan Nikiforovich’s man had no idea. They asked Varlam, Semyon Ivanovich’s driver, who 19told them that he’d been waiting there the whole time, and the carriage had been there too, but now it wasn’t.
‘A bad business!’ said Semyon Ivanovich Shipulenko. ‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘Damned scoundrel!’ yelled Pralinsky in a rage. ‘That bastard was asking me to let him go to a wedding, over here on the Petersburg Side; apparently some woman friend of his was getting married, blast her eyes. I strictly forbade him to leave. And I bet you anything that’s where he’s gone!’
‘That’s exactly where he’s gone, sir,’ Varlam confirmed, ‘and he promised he’d be back in a minute, I mean, he’d be here in time.’
‘There you are! I could see it coming! Now he’ll catch it!’
‘Give him a proper thrashing or two at the police station, that’ll teach him to obey orders,’ remarked Semyon Ivanovich, wrapping himself in his rug.
‘Please don’t trouble yourself, Semyon Ivanich!’
‘No, really, wouldn’t you like a lift?’
‘Merci, bon voyage.’
Semyon Ivanovich drove off, and Ivan Ilyich set off home along the wooden pavement in a state of intense irritation.
*
20‘Now you’ll catch it, you villain! Just you wait! I’ll walk home, just to make you feel it and take fright! He’ll come back and find his master gone home on foot … bastard!’
Ivan Ilyich had never sworn that way before, but he was in a towering rage; besides which he was hearing noises in his head. He wasn’t normally a drinker, so the five or six glasses in a row had quickly gone to his head. But the night was delightful. There was a frost, but the air was unusually quiet and still. The clear sky was filled with stars. The full moon flooded the earth with its soft silvery light. Everything was so lovely that by the time he had walked fifty steps, Ivan Ilyich had almost forgotten his troubles. He was feeling particularly pleased; when people are a bit tipsy, they can switch moods very quickly. He was even enjoying the sight of the boring little wooden houses on the deserted street.
‘What a splendid idea it was to walk home,’ he thought. ‘It’ll be a lesson to Trifon, and a pleasure for me. I really ought to do more walking. And what does it matter? I’ll pick up a sleigh straight away on Bolshoi Prospect. What a beautiful night! Just look at all these little houses. I suppose simple people live there, clerks … shopkeepers, maybe … That Stepan Nikiforovich, now! What reactionaries they are, all 21those old fogeys! Yes, fogeys, c’est le mot. Though he’s a clever fellow, he’s got bon sens, a sober, practical understanding of things. But these old men, these old men! There’s none of that … what d’you call it? . . Anyway, there’s something missing. “We won’t hold out!” What did he mean by that? He even got thoughtful when he said it. And he didn’t understand me at all. How could he have not understood me? It’s harder not to understand than to understand. The point is that I’m quite convinced, convinced in my soul. Humaneness … the love of one’s fellow man. Restore a man to himself … reawaken his self-respect, and then … once the material’s ready, get down to work. Obvious, I’d say! Yes sir! If you’ll allow me, your Excellency, take this syllogism: we meet a clerk, let’s say, a poor downtrodden clerk. “Well, and who are you?” Answer: “A clerk.” Very well, a clerk; on we go: “What kind of a clerk?” Reply: this or that kind of a clerk. “Are you in the service?”— “Yes, I am!”—“Do you want to be happy?”—“Yes, I do!”—“What do you need to make you happy?”— “This and that.”—“Why?”—“Because …” And here’s a man who understands me after a couple of words; the man’s mine, he’s caught in my net, so to speak, and I can do anything I want with him, for his own good I mean. What a nasty man that Semyon Ivanovich is! And what an ugly mug! “Thrash him at 22the police station”; he said that on purpose. No, you’re talking rubbish, thrash him yourself, but I won’t; I’ll punish Trifon with words, punish him with reproaches, and he’ll mind that. As for thrashing with sticks, hmm … that depends, hmm … What about looking in at Emerance? Oh damn and blast these wretched planks!’ he yelled, suddenly tripping up. ‘And this is a capital city! Enlightenment! You could break your leg. Hmm. I can’t stand that Semyon Ivanich; what an ugly mug! He was laughing at me, back then, when I said they’d embrace each other, in the moral sense. So they’ll embrace each other—what’s it to do with you? I shan’t be embracing you, anyway—I’d rather hug a peasant … If I meet a peasant, I’ll talk to him, peasant or not. Actually, I was drunk, maybe I didn’t express myself properly. Maybe I’m not expressing myself properly now either … Hmm. I’ll never drink any more. You talk your head off in the evening, and next day you wish you hadn’t. But I’m walking along all right, I’m not staggering around … Anyway, they’re villains, the lot of them!’
Such were Ivan Ilyich’s fragmentary and incoherent thoughts as he strode along the pavement. The fresh air had its effect on him; it got him going, so to speak. In another five minutes he would have calmed down and felt sleepy. But now, barely a couple of steps 23from Bolshoi Prospect, he heard the sound of music. He turned round to look. Across the road was a long, low, tumbledown wooden house, with a wild party in full swing indoors; fiddles wailing, a double bass scraping, a flute whistling a light-hearted quadrille. A crowd had gathered outside, under the windows, mostly women in padded coats and headscarves, trying their very best to peep through the cracks in the shutters and see what was going on. The people indoors were obviously having a great time. The thump of dancing feet could be heard across the street. Ivan Ilyich saw a policeman not far off, and approached him.
‘Whose house is that, my man?’ he asked, letting his expensive fur coat fall open a little, just wide enough for the policeman to make out the imposing medal round his neck.
‘Clerk Pseldonimov, registrar, sir,’ replied the policeman, instantly drawing himself up as he saw the decoration.
‘Pseldonimov? Hah! Pseldonimov! What’s he up to? Getting married?’
‘Yes, your Honour, marrying the daughter of a titular councillor. Mlekopitaev, Titular Councillor … served on the council. The house comes with the bride, sir.’24
‘So this isn’t Mlekopitaev’s house any more, but Pseldonimov’s?’
‘That’s it, your Honour. It was Mlekopitaev’s, but now it’s Pseldonimov’s.’
‘Hmm. The reason I’m asking, my man, is that I’m his chief. I’m the general in charge of the same department where Pseldonimov works.’
‘Yes, your Excellency, sir …’ The policeman had drawn himself up to his full height now, while Ivan Ilyich seemed to become pensive. He stood there, wondering …
Yes indeed. Pseldonimov was in his department, in fact in his own office. He was a minor official, on around ten roubles a month. Since Pralinsky had only taken over his office very recently, he might not have remembered all his staff so clearly—but he remembered Pseldonimov, just because of his surname. It had caught his eye as soon as he saw it, so he had been curious to take a closer look at the owner of such a surname. And now he remembered a very young man, scrawny, underfed, with a long hooked nose and pale wispy hair, wearing an impossible uniform coat and unmentionables that were so impossible that they were actually indecent. He recalled the thought that had flashed through his mind then: shouldn’t he award the poor wretch a holiday bonus of ten roubles to spruce 25himself up? But as the poor man had such a glum face and such an unprepossessing and repellent expression, that kindly thought had evaporated of its own accord, and Pseldonimov never got his bonus. Ivan Ilyich had been all the more astounded, no more than a week before, when Pseldonimov requested permission to marry. He remembered not having had time to look into the matter properly, so that it was all settled in a hasty, offhand way. Even so, he could recall very precisely that Pseldonimov’s bride was to come with a dowry of a wooden house and four hundred roubles in cash; he had been surprised at that at the time, and had even made a mild joke about the clash between the two names of Pseldonimov and Mlekopitaeva.* He distinctly remembered all that.
And as he recalled it, he became more and more thoughtful. We all know that whole trains of thought can sometimes pass through our minds in an instant, like mere sensations, without being translated into human language or certainly not into literary language. But we shall try to translate our hero’s unspoken sensations, offering the reader at least the substance of 26them, their most essential and realistic elements. After all, many of our sensations, when translated into everyday language, come to seem utterly unreal. That is why they never get expressed, though we all experience them. Naturally Ivan Ilyich’s sensations were somewhat incoherent—but you know why that was.
‘Just think,’ there flashed through his mind, ‘we go on talking and talking, but when we get down to business, there’s nothing to show for it. Take this Pseldonimov, for instance: he’s just come back from his wedding, all excited, full of hope, eager to taste the … This is one of the most blissful days of his life … Now he’s looking after his guests, setting up the feast—a modest one, a poor one, but merry, joyful, heartfelt … What if he knew that at this very minute, I, I myself, his superior, his chief, was standing right here outside his house, listening to his music! Well, so what would he really feel? No, how would he feel, if I suddenly took it into my head to walk in? Hmm … Naturally he’d be frightened at first, he’d be speechless with embarrassment. I’d be in the way, I might spoil the whole occasion, perhaps … Yes, that’s what would happen if any other general were to walk in, but not me … That’s how it is, with anyone but me.
‘Yes, Stepan Nikiforovich! You didn’t understand me this evening, but I’m a living example for you.27
‘Yes, sir. Here we are, all shouting about humane attitudes, but to perform a heroic act, a true exploit—that’s beyond our powers.
‘What sort of heroic act? Just this. Think about it: in the present state of relations between different classes of society, if I, I myself, were to present myself after midnight at the wedding feast of my subordinate, a registrar on ten roubles a month—why, that would be crazy, it would be the world turned upside down, the last days of Pompeii, pure Bedlam. Nobody would understand. Stepan Nikiforovich would die without ever understanding. Didn’t he say: we won’t hold out? Yes, that goes for you others, old men, stagnant and paralysed as you are—but I—will—hold—out! I’ll transform the last day of Pompeii into the most delightful day for my subordinate, I’ll turn a crazy action into a normal one, patriarchal, lofty and moral. How? Like this. Kindly listen.
‘Well then … just suppose … I go in; everyone’s amazed, the dancing stops, they all look at me wild-eyed, backing away. Yes, but now I show myself: I go straight over to frightened Pseldonimov, with the friendliest of smiles, and I explain in the simplest possible terms: “Thus and thus, I’ve been visiting his Excellency Stepan Nikiforovich; I suppose you know he lives around here …” And then I allude, in a humorous way, you know, to my adventure with Trifon. 28After Trifon, I go on to how I left on foot … “Well, and I heard music, and asked a policeman, and found out that you, my man, were getting married. So, I thought, why not drop in on my subordinate, have a look at all my staff having a good time, and … and getting married. You won’t throw me out, I suppose!” Throw me out! What a word for a subordinate! How could he possibly throw me out! I imagine he’ll be out of his mind, he’ll rush headlong to sit me down in an armchair, trembling with delight, at first he won’t know if he’s on his head or his heels!
‘Now what could be simpler and more elegant than that? And why did I go in? That’s another question! That’s the moral aspect of the business, if you like. That’s the nub of it!
‘Hmm … What was I thinking about, again? Oh yes!
‘Well of course, they’ll sit me down with the principal guest, some titular councillor, or a relative, some red-nosed retired staff captain … Gogol wrote marvellous descriptions of those oddballs. Well, they introduce me to the bride, naturally, and I compliment her, and reassure the guests. Ask them not to stand on ceremony, but enjoy themselves, carry on dancing … I make jokes, I laugh, in short I’m affable and charming. I’m always affable and charming when I’m pleased 29with myself … Hmm … the point is, I believe I’m still a bit … not drunk, I mean, but …
‘Naturally, being a gentleman, I shall be on an equal footing with them, and shan’t expect any special marks of … But morally, morally, that’s another matter: they’ll understand and appreciate that. My action will reawaken their nobler feelings … I’ll stay half an hour … perhaps even an hour. Of course I’ll leave before supper, while they’re bustling around, baking, roasting, they’ll bow low to me, but I’ll just drink a glass, wish them well, but refuse supper. Business, I’ll say. And as soon as I say the word “business”, they’ll all instantly put on stern, respectful expressions. That’ll be a delicate way of reminding them that there’s a difference between me and them. Like between heaven and earth. Not that I want to rub that in, but one has to … even in the moral sense, it has to be done, whatever you say. Although I’ll have a smile, in fact I’ll give a laugh, and everyone will cheer up straight away … I’ll have another joke with the bride; hmm … in fact here’s what I’ll do, I’ll give a hint that I’ll be back in just nine months’ time, to stand godfather, heh-heh! She’s bound to have given birth by then. They breed like rabbits. Well, and everyone will burst out laughing, and the bride will blush; I’ll give her a warm kiss on the forehead, in fact I’ll give 30her my blessing, and … and next day everyone in the office will know about my exploit. But next day I shall be stern again, and exacting again, even implacable; but by then everyone will know what I’m really like. They’ll know my heart, they’ll know my true nature: “He’s strict, as a chief; but as a man, he’s an angel!” And so I’ll have won them over—just one ordinary little act, which you’d never have dreamt of, and now they’re mine: I’m their father, they’re my children … Come on, your Excellency, Stepan Nikiforovich, you go and try doing something like that!
‘… Do you realize, do you understand that Pseldonimov will tell his children that the general himself joined in the feast, and actually drank at his wedding! I mean, those children will tell their own children, and those will tell their grandchildren, the sacred story of the grand personage, the statesman (for I’ll be all that by then), did them the great honour … et cetera et cetera. Why, I shall be morally elevating that humiliated man, restoring him to himself … Just think, he only gets ten roubles a month! . . Why, if I repeat this action five times, or ten times, or something of the sort, I’ll make myself popular everywhere … I’ll have a special place in all their hearts, and the devil alone knows what that could lead to, all that popularity!’ 31
Such, more or less, were the thoughts of Ivan Ilyich (you see, dear readers, a man may say all sorts of things to himself, particularly when he’s in a somewhat eccentric frame of mind). All these considerations slipped through his mind in the space of half a minute or so, and of course he might have confined himself to these dreams, and having put Stepan Nikiforovich to shame in his imagination, he might have gone quietly home and put himself to bed. And it would have been just as well if he had. But this was an eccentric moment, and that was the whole problem.
As luck would have it, just at that very moment the smug faces of Stepan Nikiforovich and Semyon Ivanovich rose up in his fevered imagination.
‘We won’t hold out!’ repeated Stepan Nikiforovich, with a lofty smile.
‘Heh-heh-heh!’ Semyon Ivanovich took him up, with his nastiest smirk.
‘Let’s just see whether we hold out or not!’ said Ivan Ilyich in a resolute voice, and a hot flush spread over his face. Stepping off the wooden pavement, he strode firmly across the road, straight over to the house of his subordinate, Registrar Pseldonimov.
*
