“What! an autopsy?”
“Good heavens, he was perfectly alive, sir.”
A loud and almost general burst of laughter came from the guests, who in the beginning had behaved themselves decorously. Ivan Ilyich became furious.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” he cried, at first almost without stammering, “I am quite well able to distinguish that autopsies are not performed on the living. I thought that in his madness he was no longer living… that is, already dead… that is, already dead… that is, I mean to say… that you don’t love me… And yet I love you all… yes, and I love Por… Porfiry… I humiliate myself by saying so…”
At that moment an enormous spit flew out of Ivan Ilyich’s mouth and spattered on the tablecloth in a most conspicuous place. Pseldonymov rushed to wipe it up with his napkin. This last disaster finally crushed him.
“Gentlemen, this is too much!” he cried out in despair.
“A drunk man, Your Excellency,” Pseldonymov prompted again.
“Porfiry! I see that you… all… yes! I say that I hope… yes, I challenge you all to say: how have I humiliated myself?”
Ivan Ilyich was on the verge of tears.
“Your Excellency, good heavens, sir!”
“Porfiry, I turn to you… Say, if I came… yes… yes, to the wedding, I had a goal. I wanted to morally uplift… I wanted them to feel. I address you alclass="underline" am I very humiliated in your eyes, or not?”
Deathly silence. That was just the thing, that there was deathly silence, and to such a categorical question. “Why, why don’t they cry out at least at such a moment!” flashed in His Excellency’s head. But the guests only exchanged looks. Akim Petrovich was sitting there more dead than alive, and Pseldonymov, numb with fear, repeated to himself a terrible question, which had already presented itself to him long before:
“What am I going to get for all this tomorrow?”
Suddenly the already very drunk collaborator on The Firebrand, who had been sitting in glum silence, addressed Ivan Ilyich directly and, his eyes flashing, began to reply on behalf of the whole company.
“Yes, sir!” he cried in a thundering voice, “yes, sir, you’ve humiliated yourself, yes, sir, you’re a retrograde… Re-tro-grade!”
“Young man, come to your senses! To whom, as it were, are you speaking!” Ivan Ilyich cried furiously, again jumping up from his seat.
“To you, and, secondly, I’m not a young man… You came to show off and seek popularity.”
“Pseldonymov, what is it!” cried Ivan Ilyich.
But Pseldonymov jumped up in such horror that he stood like a post and absolutely did not know what to start doing. The guests, too, froze in their places. The artist and the student were applauding and shouting, “Bravo, bravo!”
The collaborator went on shouting with irrepressible rage:
“Yes, you came to flaunt your humaneness! You interfered with everybody’s merrymaking. You drank champagne without realizing that it was too expensive for a clerk who makes ten roubles a month, and I suspect that you’re one of those superiors who relish their subordinates’ young wives! Not only that, I’m convinced that you’re in favor of tax-farming… Yes, yes, yes!”
“Pseldonymov, Pseldonymov!” Ivan Ilyich cried, holding his arms out to him. He felt that each of the collaborator’s words was like a new dagger in his heart.
“Wait, Your Excellency, kindly do not worry!” Pseldonymov cried out energetically, jumped over to the collaborator, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and pulled him away from the table. It was even impossible to expect such physical strength from the scrawny Pseldonymov. But the collaborator was very drunk, and Pseldonymov perfectly sober. Then he gave him several whacks on the back and chucked him out the door.
“You’re all scoundrels!” the collaborator cried. “By tomorrow I’ll make caricatures of you all in The Firebrand!…”
They all jumped up from their seats.
“Your Excellency, Your Excellency!” cried Pseldonymov, his mother, and some of the guests, crowding around the general. “Calm yourself, Your Excellency!”
“No, no!” cried the general, “I’m destroyed… I came… I wanted, so to speak, to baptize. And look here, for all that, for all that!”
He sank onto the chair as if unconscious, put both hands on the table, and lowered his head to them, right into a dish of blancmange. No need to describe the universal horror. A minute later he rose, as if wishing to leave, staggered, tripped against the leg of a chair, fell flat on the floor, and started snoring …
This happens to non-drinkers when they accidentally get drunk. To the last stroke, to the last instant they remain conscious, and then suddenly fall as if cut down. Ivan Ilyich lay on the floor, having lost all consciousness. Pseldonymov seized himself by the hair and froze in that position. The guests hastily began to depart, each discussing in his own way what had happened. It was about three o’clock in the morning.
The main thing was that Pseldonymov’s situation was much worse than could have been imagined, quite apart from the whole attractiveness of the present circumstances. And while Ivan Ilyich is lying on the floor, with Pseldonymov standing over him, desperately tugging himself by the hair, let us interrupt the chosen current of our story and give a few words of explanation about Porfiry Petrovich Pseldonymov himself.
Still as recently as a month before his marriage, he was perishing quite irretrievably. He came from the provinces, where his father had once served as something and where he had died while under prosecution. When, some five months before the wedding, after perishing for a whole year in Petersburg, Pseldonymov got his ten-rouble post, he was resurrected in body and spirit, but circumstances soon laid him low again. In the whole world there remained only two Pseldonymovs, he and his mother, who had left the provinces after her husband’s death. Mother and son were perishing together in the cold and feeding on doubtful substances. There were days when Pseldonymov took a mug and went to the Fontanka himself to fetch water, which he also drank there. Having obtained his post, he and his mother somehow settled themselves in corners somewhere. She began taking in laundry, and he knocked together some savings over four months, so as somehow to provide himself with boots and a bit of an overcoat. And how much grief he endured in his office: his superiors would approach him asking him if it was long since he had taken a bath. There was a rumor that he had nests of bedbugs thriving under the collar of his uniform. But Pseldonymov was a man of firm character. In appearance, he was quiet and placid; he had very little education, and hardly ever was any conversation heard from him. I do not know positively whether he thought, made plans and systems, or dreamed of anything. But instead he was developing some instinctive, deep-seated, unconscious resolve to make his way out of his nasty situation. There was an antlike persistence in him: destroy an anthill and they will immediately start rebuilding it, destroy it again—again they will rebuild it, and so on without tiring. This was a nest-building and domestic being. One could see written on his brow that he would find his way, make his nest, and perhaps even put something aside. His mother alone in the whole world loved him and loved him to distraction. She was a firm, tireless, hardworking woman, and kind besides. They would just have gone on living in their corners for another five or six years, until circumstances changed, had they not run into the retired titular councillor Mlekopitaev, who had been a treasurer serving somewhere in the provinces, but had recently moved to Petersburg and settled there with his family. He knew Pseldonymov and had once owed something to his father. He had a bit of money, not much, of course, but he did have it; how much there was in reality—of this no one knew anything, neither his wife, nor his elder daughter, nor his relations. He had two daughters, and since he was a terrible despot, a drunkard, a domestic tyrant, and ailing besides, he suddenly took a notion to marry one daughter to Pseldonymov: “I know him,” he said, “the father was a good man, and the son will be a good man.” Whatever Mlekopitaev wanted, he did; no sooner said than done. He was a very strange despot. He spent most of his time sitting in his armchair, some illness having deprived him of the use of his legs, though that did not prevent him from drinking vodka. He drank and swore the whole day long. He was a wicked man; he absolutely had to torment someone constantly. For that he kept several distant female relations around him: his own sister, ailing and shrewish; his wife’s two sisters, also wicked and multiloquent; and then his old aunt, who had broken a rib on some occasion. He kept yet another sponger, a Russified German woman, for her talent in telling him tales from The Thousand and One Nights. All his pleasure consisted in picking on these unfortunate hangers-on, cursing them constantly and seven ways to Sunday, though none of them, including his wife, who had been born with a toothache, dared to make a peep before him. He got them to quarrel among themselves, invented and fomented gossip and strife among them, and afterward guffawed and rejoiced seeing how they all nearly came to blows among themselves. He was overjoyed when his elder daughter, who for about ten years had lived in poverty with some officer, her husband, was finally widowed and moved in with him, bringing three small, ailing children. Her children he could not stand, but since their appearance increased the material on which his daily experiments could be conducted, the old man was very pleased. This whole heap of wicked women and ailing children, together with their tormentor, crowded into a wooden house on the Petersburg side, not eating enough, because the old man was miserly and handed out money by kopecks, though he did not stint on his vodka; not sleeping enough, because the old man suffered from insomnia and demanded to be entertained. In short, the whole thing lived in poverty and cursed its fate. It was at this time that Mlekopitaev sought out Pseldonymov. He was struck by his long nose and humble look. His puny and homely younger daughter had then turned seventeen. Though she had once attended some German Schule, she had not learned much more in it than the rudiments. After that, she grew up, scrofulous and sapless, under the crutch of her lame and drunken parent, amid a bedlam of household gossip, spying, and calumny. She never had any girlfriends, or any intelligence. She had long been wishing to get married. With other people she was silent, but at home, by her mummy and the spongers, she was wicked and piercing as a little drill. She particularly liked pinching and dealing out swats to her sister’s children, peaching on them for stolen sugar or bread, which caused an endless and unquenchable quarrel between her and her elder sister. The old man himself offered her to Pseldonymov. But he, wretched though he was, nevertheless asked for some time to reflect. He and his mother pondered long together. But the house was to be registered in the bride’s name, and though it was wooden, though it was one-storied and disgusting, it was still worth something. On top of that came four hundred roubles—when would he ever save up so much! “Why am I taking a man into my house?” the drunken tyrant shouted. “First, since you’re all females, and I’m sick of just females. I want Pseldonymov to dance to my music, too, because I’m his benefactor. Second, I’m taking him, because you all don’t want it and you’re angry. So I’ll do it just to spite you. What I’ve said I’ll do, I’ll do! And you, Porfirka, beat her when she’s your wife; she’s had seven demons sitting in her since the day she was born. Drive them all out, I’ll even get the stick ready…”