Kuolema on yksi graf Leo Tolstoin syvällisimmistä ja ajatuksia herättävimmistä kertomuksista. Tämä tarina pureutuu elämän rajallisuuteen, ihmisen sisäisiin ristiriitoihin sekä siihen, kuinka kohtaamme väistämättömän lopun. Tolstoi avaa lukijalle sekä filosofisen että inhimillisen näkökulman kuolemaan – ei pelkästään loppuna, vaan myös porttina ymmärrykseen ja merkityksen etsintään.
🎧 Tässä äänikirjassa pääset kokemaan Tolstoin mestarillisen kielenkäytön ja sen, miten hän luo ilmapiirin, joka on yhtä aikaa raskas, kaunis ja syvästi koskettava.
👉 Miksi kuunnella tämä tarina?
– Syvällinen pohdinta elämästä ja kuolemasta
– Klassikkokirjailijan ajatuksia, jotka ovat yhä ajankohtaisia
– Filosofinen ja emotionaalinen lukuelämys
– Kaunis kieli ja vaikuttava kerronta
📚 Tämä teos on osa klassista kirjallisuutta, joka on inspiroinut lukijoita sukupolvien ajan. Se tarjoaa jokaiselle kuulijalle mahdollisuuden pysähtyä ja pohtia omaa suhdettaan elämään, kuolemaan ja merkitykseen.
đź”” Tilaa kanavamme, jotta et missaa uusia klassikkotarinoita suomeksi: [https://bit.ly/AanikirjatSuomeksi
✨](https://bit.ly/AanikirjatSuomeksi
-🕵️‍♂️ Kauhun laakso 2: Salaseuralaiset | Arthur Conan Doyle 🎧[https://youtu.be/rxuu17T0RwQ]
✨) Klassikkokirjallisuus voi avata ovia syvempään ymmärrykseen ja tarjota lohtua vaikeina hetkinä. Tämä tarina on täydellinen esimerkki Tolstoin voimasta koskettaa ja herättää ajatuksia.
#Äänikirjat #Tolstoi #Kuolema #Klassikkokirjallisuus #Suomenkielinen
Hashtagit ja optimointi auttavat sinua löytämään tämän mestariteoksen helposti – anna Tolstoin viisauden ja kerronnan johdattaa sinut syvälliseen tarinaan kuolemasta ja elämästä.
**Navigate by Chapters or Titles:**
00:00:33 Chapter 1.
00:20:16 Chapter 2.
00:38:58 Chapter 3.
00:55:49 Chapter 4.
01:12:17 Chapter 5.
01:21:33 Chapter 6.
01:28:13 Chapter 7.
01:37:41 Chapter 8.
01:52:35 Chapter 9.
01:58:45 Chapter 10.
02:03:24 Chapter 11.
02:09:29 Chapter 12.
Welcome to listen to Leo Tolstoy’s impressive story “Death”. This work leads us to think about the limitations of human life, the inevitability of death and how these themes are reflected both in the individual’s inner world and in society’s perceptions. Tolstoy is known for his deep moral and philosophical reflections, and in this story he tackles the very question that no one can avoid: what it means to die and what it means to really live. Get ready for a profound and thought- provoking journey that challenges every listener to stop at the core questions of life. Chapter 1. In the private office of Ivan Yegorovitsh Shebek, in the large court palace, where Melvinski’s case was pending, immediately after the session, the members of the court and the public prosecutor faced each other . A discussion arose about the famous Krasovski case. Fyodor Vasiljevitch got angry and tried to prove that the matter could not be decided by the judiciary, Ivan Yegorovitch argued the opposite, sticking to his own opinion, but Pyotr Ivanovich did not bother to take part in the whole argument, but browsed the newspaper that had just appeared. — Gentlemen! he snapped suddenly, — Now Ivan Ilyich is dead. — What do you say? — Read for yourself, — he said to Fyodor Vasilevich, handing him the number that still smelled of its freshness. Inside the black frame was printed: With heartfelt sorrow, I hereby inform my relatives and acquaintances that my beloved spouse, Member of the Court, Ivan Ilyich Golovin passed away on the 4th of February this year, 1882. The funeral leaves on Friday at 1, after noon. Praskovya Fyodorovna Golovina. Ivan Ilyich had been an official fellow of the assembled gentlemen, and everyone had liked him. He had already been ill for a few weeks with a disease that had been said to be incurable. There had already been talk before that in the event that this man dies, Alekseyev could be assigned to his place, and to Alekseyev’s place again — either Vinnikov or Shtabel. So that upon hearing that Ivan Ilyich had now died, each of the gentlemen present thought first of what significance this death might have had on the changes of position and promotions of the members of the Court themselves or their acquaintances . Now I will probably get Shtabel’s or Vinnikov’s place, — thought Fyodor Vasiljevitsh. — Of course, it has been promised to me for some time, and the promotion will bring me 800 rubles of additional income, except for clerical work. Now I have to ask my brother-in-law to move from Kaluga, thought Pyotr Ivanovich. — My wife is very happy about it. Now they can no longer say that I have never done anything for his relatives. “That’s what I thought too, that man wouldn’t get out of bed again,” said Pyotr Ivanovich in his voice. — Pity him! — What was really bothering him? — Those doctors couldn’t decide that. Or they did conclude that, but in a different way. When I last saw him, it seemed to me that he was getting better. — But I haven’t been able to visit him since Easter, even though I’ve always wanted to. — How was he prepared? — I guess the wife has a little something, but it’s not much. — Yes, you have to drive there from here. They just live so far away! — Yes — from you. Everything is far from you. “You don’t seem to be able to forgive me for living across the river, ” said Pyotr Ivanovich, smiling at Shebek. And then we started talking about the distances between the cities, after which the gentlemen went back to the session. Apart from the discussions of possible changes of office which might result from this death, the death itself excited in all who heard of it, as usual, a feeling of joy that it was he who died and not me. Whatever! that man left, but my time has not yet come, so everyone thought or felt in their soul. The close acquaintances again, the so-called friends of Ivan Ilyich, along with this, suddenly also thought that now they had to perform those rather unpleasant requirements of decency — drive to mass for souls and then go to mourn the widow. The closest of all were Fyodor Vasiljevitsh and Pyotr Ivanovich. Pyotr Ivanovich had studied jurisprudence with Ivan Ilyich and considered himself almost indebted to the deceased. After dinner, having informed his wife of Ivan Ilyich’s death and his thoughts about the possible transfer of his brother-in-law to their district, Pyotr Ivanovich put on his tail and, without enjoying a dinner rest, started driving straight to the deceased’s apartment. Some carriages and two drivers were already standing at the gate of Ivan Ilyich’s apartment . Down in the hall, next to the coat hanger, there was a silver woven coffin lid with tassels and gold ribbons attached to the wall. Two women dressed in black were just taking off their fur coats. One was Ivan Ilyich’s sister, an acquaintance, the other was unknown. Shvarz, Pyotr Ivanovich’s comrade, was just coming from the upper floor, but, having noticed the comer from the top step, stopped and winked at him as if to say: naughty Ivan Ilyich did his business; we are different men with you. Shvarz’s face with its English sideburns and that whole thin creature wrapped in a tailcoat looked, as always, very solemn, and this solemnity, which was always at war with Shvarz’s playful nature, felt even more biting this time. At least that’s what Pyotr Ivanovich thought. Pyotr Ivanovich let the women go ahead of him and followed them slowly up the stairs. Shvarz did not bother to come down, but remained upstairs, and Pyotr Ivanovich understood why he did this: he, evidently, wanted to negotiate where today it would be appropriate to play screw. The women went up the stairs to the widow’s side, but Shvarz stood with his thick lips solemnly pressed together, and with his playful look and a movement of his eyebrows beckoned Pyotr Ivanovich to go to the right, into the room of the deceased. Pyotr Ivanovich entered, as usual on such occasions, at a loss as to what he had to do there. One thing he knew, namely that on such occasions it is never a disadvantage to make the sign of the cross. He wasn’t entirely sure about whether he needed to bow along with this, and therefore chose the middle way, so when he entered the room, he started making the sign of the cross and at the same time a little as if bowing. If the movements of his hands and head allowed, he also looked at the room he had entered at the same time. Two young men, who were apparently nephews of the deceased and one of whom was a Kimnasist, went out of the room making the signs of the cross. The old grandmother stood motionless, and a woman, whose eyebrows were strangely raised, spoke to her, whispering something in her ear. A brisk and resolute-looking church minister, wearing a frock coat, was reading something aloud, with an expression on his face that would not bear objection; the housekeeper Gerasim tiptoed in front of Pyotr Ivanovich and sprinkled something on the floor. After seeing this, Pyotr Ivanovich immediately felt a fine body odor in his nostrils. On his last visit here, Pyotr Ivanovich had seen the said peasant servant in the master’s room; she had been his nurse, and Ivan Ilyich had taken a special liking to her. Pyotr Ivanovich still continued to make the sign of the cross and his slight bows — midway between the coffin, the minister, and the icons on the corner table. Only when this hand-delivered baptism movement started to feel too long-winded did he wake up and start looking at the dead man. The dead rested, as the dead always rest, strangely heavy, like the dead, the frozen limbs sunk into the interior of the coffin and the head sunk into eternal sleep against the pillow. As the dead usually do, this one too had a pale waxy forehead with bald, sunken temples and a sharply protruding nose that was as if flattened against the upper lip. He had changed a lot and emaciated since Pyotr Ivanovich had last seen her, but, like all the dead, her face was more beautiful and full of content than when alive. There was a look on the face that what had to be done has now been done, and done thoroughly. Besides, there was still a rebuke or a reminder to the living in this expression. However, this reminder seemed inappropriate to Pyotr Ivanovich, or at least something that did not concern him. He began to feel a little awkward, and so Pyotr Ivanovich once more hastily made the sign of the cross, and, as it seemed to him, too hastily and improperly turned away and went to the door. Shvarz was waiting for him in the passage room , standing with his legs apart, his top hat behind his back with both hands. A single glance at Shvarz’s playful, smooth and refined creature brought Pyotr Ivanovich to his senses. He understood that Shvarz knew how to stand above all this without succumbing to depressing influences. His very sight said: this random Mass for the souls of Ivan Ilyich cannot in any way give enough reason to disturb the former order, in other words: that nothing can prevent, even on these evenings , from knocking over the deck of cards and scattering it at the same time as the servant lights four whole candles by the coffin of the deceased; in other words: that there is no basis for supposing that this incident could disturb us from having a good evening already today. He said this, whispering into the ear of Pyotr Ivanovich, who was passing by, suggesting that they should gather together at Fyodor Vasilevich’s. But apparently fate had not allowed Pyotr Ivanovich to play the screw tonight. Praskovya Fyodorovna, a short and fat woman, who, in spite of all her efforts to slim down, was nevertheless horribly fat from the shoulders down, and who was now dressed in black and covered up to the head with a gauze cloth, and whose eyebrows were raised as strangely as the woman who stood opposite the coffin, now stepped out of her inner shelter in the company of other women , and after escorting them to the door of the deceased, said: Mass for the souls is about to begin now, do well and enter. Shvarz responded to this proposal with a vague bow , apparently without agreeing to it or rejecting it, but Praskovya Fyodorovna, who at the same time knew Pyotr Ivanovich, sighed, stepped right up to him, took him by the hand and said: I know that you were a true friend of Ivan Ilyich… and looked at him, expecting from him an action corresponding to her words. Pyotr Ivanovich realized that just as he had just had to make the sign of the cross, so now he had to shake hands, sigh , and say: believe me! And so he did. And having done so, he felt that the result was the desired one, namely, that both he and the widow both felt moved. – Let’s go over there a little while we wait, I have something to talk to you about, – said the widow. — Give me your hand. Pyotr Ivanovich offered his hand, and they directed their steps into the inner rooms, passing Shvarzin, who winked sadly at Pyotr Ivanovich. Oh my screw player! But don’t mind if we take on another partner. And you can play it with up to five guests, when you separate your desires, said his playful look. Pyotr Ivanovich sighed even more deeply and sadly, and Praskovya Fyodorovna gratefully shook his hand. After entering the lady’s drawing-room, draped with rose-red cretonne, where a dim lamp was burning, they sat down at the table: the lady on a soft sofa, Pyotr Ivanovich again on a low stool, which creaked badly when he sat down. It is true that Praskovya Fyodorovna had intended to warn him about this seat and advise him about another one, but she realized that such a warning did not really suit her position and therefore left it undone. As he sat down on this seat, Pyotr Ivanovich remembered how Ivan Ilyich had decorated this guest room even just negotiated with him for this same rose-red cretonne with green leaves. While trying to sit on the sofa and walking to the side of the table, the whole drawing-room was otherwise crammed full of furniture, and the widow caught the edge of her black kerchief in the groove of the table, and when Pyotr Ivanovich got up to let it go, his stool, released from under his weight, began to bounce and bump hard against him. The widow hastened to remove her gauze herself, and Pyotr Ivanovich sat down again, forcing the rebellious stool to sink under him. But the widow couldn’t get her gauze off completely, and Pyotr Ivanovich jumped up again, and again got up on the stool to rebel, even more badly in love. When all this was finally settled, the widow pulled a clean batiste handkerchief from her pocket and began to cry. Pyotr Ivanovich, on the other hand, was very disgusted by this gauzy thing and the fight with the stool, and he sat still with a frown. This awkward position was put an end to by Sokolov, Ivan Ilyich’s waiter, by announcing that the place in the cemetery that Praskovya Fyodorovna had ordered would cost 200 roubles. The widow burst into tears and, casting a victim’s glance at Pyotr Ivanovich, said in French that it was very difficult for him to be. Pyotr Ivanovich made a silent movement to show that he believed it was just as the other assured. — Please smoke, — said the lady in a generous and at the same time depressed voice, and began to negotiate with Sokolov about the price of the burial place. While smoking there, Pyotr Ivanovich heard how the widow very minutely inquired about the various prices of the land and determined what should be taken. Moreover, after solving the burial matter, he also took measures to acquire singers. Sokolov left. — As you can see, I’m always just working and doing things myself, — the widow explained to Pyotr Ivanovich, moving the albums on the table to one side, and after noticing that the ashes of paper shreds threatened the table, she shoved the ashtray in front of Pyotr Ivanovich without cursing and crooned: I would consider it pretentious if I said that I can’t take care of practical things because of grief. On the contrary, if anything can help me — I won’t say: comfort… but dissipate my anger, it ‘s taking care of my deceased husband. — He pulled out his handkerchief again as if to prepare himself to cry, but then suddenly, as if restraining himself, he shook off his melancholy and began to speak calmly. — To be honest, I have something for you. Pyotr Ivanovich bowed, not yielding to the stool’s vipers, which tended to bounce under him. — In the last days, my husband was suffering a lot. — Really? — asked Pyotr Ivanovich. — Oh, absolutely terrible! For the last not only minutes, but hours, he screamed non-stop. For three days in a row, without changing his voice, he shouted. It was absolutely unbearable to hear, and I don’t understand how I could stand it, because through three doors that scream could be heard. Oh, good father, what I had to endure! — And was he really conscious? — asked Pyotr Ivanovich. — It was, — the soper’s widow, — until the very last moment. He bade us farewell a quarter of an hour before his death, and then ordered Volodya to be taken out. The thought of the suffering man, with whom he had been so closely acquainted, and whom he remembered as a cheerful schoolboy, and then had seen as a full-grown card-player, horrified Pyotr Ivanovich, and he was disgusted both by his own pretense and by that woman’s. He could see that pale yellow forehead again, that nose crumpled against his lip, and he was horrified by himself. Three days of cruel suffering and then death! This could happen to me at any moment, he thought, and for a moment he felt terrible. But then immediately, he himself did not know how, the everyday thought came to his aid that this had happened to Ivan Ilyich and not to him, and that this needs to happen to him and it certainly can’t happen to him. And that, if he thinks so, he is in vain giving himself up to dark moods, which is not to be done, and of which he had read the warning in Shvarz’s face. Having thus pondered his own thoughts, Pyotr Ivanovich calmed down and began to inquire with interest about the details of Ivan Ilyich’s last moments, as if death had been an accident peculiar only to Ivan Ilyich, but by no means belonging to himself. After all the detailed discussions about the physical sufferings of the deceased, which had really been terrible, and of which Pyotr Ivanovich only learned through the fact that the deceased’s pains had affected Praskovya Fyodorovna’s nerves, the widow saw it necessary at last to proceed to speak about her matter. — Ah, Pyotr Ivanovich, how this feels heavy, so terribly, so terribly heavy! — and she started to cry again. Pyotr Ivanovich sighed and waited for the widow to blow her nose . When this had finished, the other said: I share in your grief, and the widow began to speak again and finally got to say what was apparently her main concern, namely: how in such a case of a man’s death, money could be obtained from the crown. The widow arranged her words as if she had asked Pyotr Ivanovich’s advice about the pension, but the latter found that she knew even down to the smallest details what Pyotr Ivanovich did not know, namely, everything that could be extracted from the crown on the basis of this death. But he wanted to know: couldn’t there be some way to get even more money? Pyotr Ivanovich tried to come up with such a way, but after thinking about it a lot, and after scolding the government for its narrowness a little out of decency, he said that it was hardly possible to get more. Then the widow panted and evidently began to think about how to get rid of her guest. This one understood the cough, put out his paper, got up, shook the lady’s hand and went into the hall. In the dining room, where the wall clock, which the host had liked a lot after having bought it once in a junk shop, was still ticking, Pyotr Ivanovich met the priest and some acquaintances who had arrived for the soul mass. There he also saw a beautiful girl he knew from before, the daughter of Ivan Ilyich. She was also dressed in all black and her slim body looked even slimmer now . He looked grim, resolute, almost angry , and answered Pyotr Ivanovich’s bow as if he were somehow guilty before him. Behind the daughter stood a rich young man familiar to Pyotr Ivanovich, the examiner, the young lady’s fiancĂ©, as he had been told, looking equally offended . He bowed weakly to her, intending to go to the dead man’s room, when at the same time a young gymnasist boy, who looked remarkably like Ivan Ilyich, appeared from the bottom of the stairs . It was as if Ivan Ilyich appeared as a little boy, at the time when he and Pyotr Ivanovich went to school. His eyes were teary and looked like what 13-14 year old naughty boys usually have. After noticing Pyotr Ivanovich, the boy began to grin in shame. Pyotr Ivanovich nodded to him and entered the dead man’s room. The Mass of the Soul began — with candles, sighs, incense, tears , and relevant lamentations. Pyotr Ivanovich stood frowning, staring at his own feet. He never looked at the body and remained strong-minded until the end and was the first to leave. He still saw no one in the hall, but Gerasim, that young peasant, hurried after him from the deceased’s room, groped with his strong hands through all the outer garments to find Pyotr Ivanovich’s coat, and then helped it on him. “How do you feel now, brother Gerasim,” Pyotr Ivanovich croaked to say something. — Do you miss it? — Whatever God’s will, it’s all for once there we go,” said Gerasim, showing his white, full peasant teeth, and, like a man in the throes of increased work, swiftly pushed the door open, called to the driver, put Pyotr Ivanovich in the carriage, and sprang back up the steps, as if wondering what was still to be done. Pyotr Ivanovich felt good to breathe fresh air after the smell of incense smoke, body odor and carbolic acid. — Where are you telling me to drive? — asked the driver. — It’s not too late. I will now digress to Fyodor Vasiljevitch. And that’s where Pyotr Ivanovich drove and indeed met his comrade finishing his 1st robbert, so it was quite nice for him to arrive fifth. Chapter 2. Ivan Ilyich’s life story is the most simple and ordinary, and at the same time the most horrible. He died at the age of 45 while a member of the Supreme Court. His father was a civil servant who, in various administrative branches and departments in St. Petersburg , had completed his official career, which brought people to the position that , although it is clearly seen that they are not fit to fulfill any kind of real duty, they cannot be fired on the basis of their long past service, and who therefore always get invented idle editor positions with good salaries — from 6 to 10 thousand roubles, with which they then live to old age. Such was the secret councilor Ilya Yefimovitsh Golovin, an unnecessary member of all kinds of unnecessary institutions. He had three sons and Ivan Ilyich was the second in order of age. The eldest had completed the same brilliant career as the father, although only in a different branch of administration, and was already approaching the official age when he would get that undeserved salary increase. The third son was a lucky outcast. Having served in various fields, he had everywhere spoiled his affairs, and now served on the railway, and both father and brothers, and especially their wives, did not wish to see him, and, without the most necessary compulsion, did not consider it their duty even to remember his existence. The sister was married to Baron Gref, who was a St. Petersburg official like her father-in-law. Ivan Ilyich was le phenix de la famille, as they say in French. He was not as cold-blooded and punctual as the eldest brother and as incompetent as the youngest brother. He was in the middle of them — an intelligent, lively, pleasant and sociable man. He had received his school education together with his youngest brother in the field of legal sciences. The youngest brother did not get through school, but was expelled from the 5th grade. Ivan Ilyich, on the other hand, completed his school course well. Even then in law he was what he was later on throughout his life: a capable, hilariously benevolent, human-friendly man who, however, conscientiously fulfilled what he considered his duty, and as his duty he considered everything that other persons in a higher position also considered. He was not a favor-seeker, neither as a boy nor as a full-grown man, but from his youth he had the characteristic that , like a fly to the light, he sought to be surrounded by people of a higher position, appropriated their manners, their views on life and built friendly relations with them. All the amusements of childhood and youth passed him by without leaving any noticeable traces, he could indeed surrender to the power of sensitivity and ambition, and finally, in higher circles, to the power of liberality, but everything stopped within the prescribed limits, which his instincts surely showed him. Back in school, he had done things that seemed to him quite outrageous and forced him to hate himself at the time he did them, but after noticing that the same things had also been done by people standing higher without thinking them ugly, he completely forgot them, if he still didn’t think they were beautiful, but he was not a little ashamed of them when he happened to remember them. After graduating from law school with a passing certificate in the ninth grade and after receiving the money from his father for the purchase of an official uniform, Ivan Ilyich ordered himself a suit of clothes from Sharmer, the finest tailor in the capital, hung a small commemorative coin on his watches with the inscription: respice finem, pronounced a solemn farewell to the prince and the leader, dined with his comrades at Donon’s — after which he, with his new-fashioned cabbages, linens, suits, shaving and with his toilet necessities and carrying bags, all of which were ordered and bought from the best warehouses, traveled to the interior, where his father had procured for him a civil servant’s position in the governor’s office for special measures . After arriving in the country town, Ivan Ilyich immediately created for himself a position as light and pleasant as the one he had had at school. He took care of his duties, Yleni step by step in his office and at the same time led a fun and decent life. At times he traveled around the county as the confidant of his superiors, appearing with dignity both in the company of his superiors and inferiors and fulfilling the duties entrusted to him, which primarily concerned sectarian matters , with punctuality and incorruptible honesty, of which one could not be proud . In spite of his young age and his natural inclination to light gaiety, in official matters he was extremely moderate, official, even strict, while on the other hand in matters of social life he was often playful, headstrong, always good-natured, polite and such a Bon enfant, as his superiors and his lady said of him, with whom he was just like at home. While he was here in the country town, he also had relations with a certain woman, who was attracted to this somewhat geeky lawyer; he was also acquainted with a few fashion seamstresses and took part in drinks with the side adjutants who had arrived in town, sometimes riding with his comrades to the streets of the outskirts of town after dinner. He could obey his superior’s wife as much as the superior himself. But all this had such a lofty stamp of decency that no ugly words could be used about it, but everything fit into that French phrase: il faut que jeunesse passe. Everything happened with clean hands, in clean shirts, with French words on their lips and, what is the main thing, in the highest social circle, so these people in a higher position accepted it themselves. This is how Ivan Ilyich served for five years, after which there was a change in his official position. Namely, new judicial institutions appeared, which needed new people. And Ivan Ilyich became one of these new persons. He was offered the position of examining magistrate, and he accepted it, even though the place was in another county, and therefore had to throw away all the lost relationships and build new ones in a new place. When leaving the old place, friends gave Ivan Ilyich moving homework cookies, gave him a silver paper case as a souvenir, and so he traveled to his new place. As a magistrate, Ivan Ilyich was the same comme il faut, a decent man who knew how to separate official duties from his private life and commanded public respect, as before as an official for special actions. The work of the examination judge itself amused and attracted Ivan Ilyich much more than his former position. In that former position, it had been quite nice, dressed in a Sharmeri everyday uniform, to freely walk around the side of trembling beggars waiting for reception and officials who envied him, to push straight into the chief’s office and sit down with him to drink tea with paper in his teeth; but there had been too few people who directly depended on his will. Only the crown princes and sectarians had been like that , when he had been sent to them on an official basis. But it had been fun for him academically, almost in a friendly way, to hang out with people who depended on him, it had been fun for him to give others feel that maybe he, who has the power to crush, socializes with them just like a friend simply. There had been few such people then. But now, being the public prosecutor, Ivan Ilyich felt that all,—absolutely all,—even the most important, self-satisfied people, all were in his hands, and that all he had to do was write the prescribed words on the side of the document, and that important, self-satisfied person would be brought directly to him, either as an accused or as a witness, and would, if he did not want to imprison him, stand humbly before him and answer his questions. Ivan Ilyich never abused this power, but tried, on the contrary, to moderate its forms of expression, but the sense of possessing such power and the opportunity to moderate it brought him the greatest amusement and charm in his new office. In the office itself, namely when carrying out investigations , Ivan Ilyich very soon learned to separate from himself all branches of affairs that did not concern the office, and to put even the most complicated things into such a form, where the matter could only be reflected on paper in an outward way, without his personal point of view appearing in it in the slightest and, what is the main thing, where all the required formalities were strictly observed. The matter was still new, and he was one of the first men to put the regulations of 1864 into practice. When moving to a new city as an examining magistrate, Ivan Ilyich made new acquaintances, got into new relationships, created a new position for himself and took on a slightly different attitude. He placed himself at a suitable distance from the county governors and chose the district he liked from among the lawyers and nobles living in the city, he appeared a little scornful of the government, he was reasonably liberal and civilized and democratic. In addition to this, Ivan Ilyich, without giving up his former graceful appearance in the slightest, having come to his new position, stopped shaving his chin and let his beard grow just as it wanted. Ivan Ilyich’s life in the new city turned out to be quite comfortable: that circle of friends who were rebelling against the governor were friendly and gentle people, the salary was great, and the fun of life was increased by the card game, which Ivan Ilyichkin now began to practice, possessing the ability to hit cards cheerfully, quickly considering his actions and very nicely, so that he usually always stayed on the winning side. After a couple of years in this new position, Ivan Ilyich met his future wife. Praskovya Fyodorovna Michel was the most charming, intelligent and brilliant young lady in the circle in which Ivan Ilyich moved. At first he only fell into a playful, light-hearted relationship with this young lady, regarding it as nothing more than an ordinary amusement and refreshment during the leave of his duties. When he was a young civil servant for special duties, Ivan Ilyich had generally taken part in all proms, but after becoming a judge, he was only seen dancing in exceptional cases. He now took part in these amusements only with the mind that even though he was a man of the new civil service and belonged to the fifth rank, he could dance here, if it was necessary, and maybe even better than anyone else! So, only sometimes, miraculously, at the end of the evenings, he danced with Praskovya Fyodorovna , and it was mainly during these dances that he won her heart. The girl fell in love with him, and although Ivan Ilyich had no clearly defined intention to marry, he, since the girl once fell in love with him, asked himself the question: Why should I really not get married? Miss Praskovya Fyodorovna was from a good noble family and was not ugly in appearance, and she had a little property. Admittedly, in Ivan Ilyich’s opinion, he could have made a more brilliant marriage deal than this, but yes, even this was enough for him. After all, he had his own salary, and the girl, he hoped, would have as much. The relationship was appropriate, and the maiden such a sweet, neat, perfectly decent lady. But just as it would be wrong to say that Ivan Ilyich married because he fell in love with his bride or found in her an echo of his views on life, it would be equally wrong to say that he married because the people in his social circle approved of this marriage union. Ivan Ilyich married with a bit of both sides in mind: he pleased himself by getting such a wife, and at the same time he also did what the people of a higher position considered natural. And so Ivan Ilyich got married. The performance of the marriage itself and the first period of married life, with its conjugal caresses, new furniture, new dishes, new linens, until his wife became pregnant, went very well, so that Ivan Ilyich already began to think that getting married is not only without disturbing the light, sweet, funny and always decent and socially accepted nature of life, which Ivan Ilyich considered to be a part of life in general, but still does double the joy of life . But then, from the first few months of the wife’s pregnancy , something new, unexpected, unpleasant, oppressive and obscene appeared , which could not have been expected and could not be escaped. For without the slightest reason, as it seemed to Ivan Ilyich, de GaitĂ© de coeur, as he said to himself, the wife began to break the sweetness and harmony of life: she was jealous for no reason, demanded a lot of attention from him, looked for a quarrel about everything, and carried out unpleasant and brutal scenes. At first, Ivan Ilyich hoped to free himself from this burdensome position with the same light and decent attitude towards life which had always helped him out of trouble before; he tried not to care about his wife’s bad temper, led a fun and light life as before, invited friends over to play cards and also sometimes drove himself to the club or to his friends. But one day the wife started barking at him furiously, using harsh words and stubbornly continued this barking every time the man didn’t meet her demands, visibly firmly determined not to budge until the other humbled himself, so he stayed home to sit and miss himself like himself. Then Ivan Ilyich was finally horrified. He understood that married life, at least with his wife, does not always increase the harmony of life, but on the contrary often disturbs it, and that it is therefore necessary to protect oneself from this disturbance. And Ivan Ilyich started looking for ways to do it. Since the official position was the only one that Praskovya Fyodorovna considered valid, Ivan Ilyich began to fight against his wife with the help of it and the resulting official duties, thus trying to get his own independent mile fenced off for himself. This need to build a family for himself outside of his own world became even more permanent for Ivan Ilyich after the child had been born and he had been tried to feed and care for it in all sorts of unsuccessful ways, and mother and child fell ill with diseases, sometimes real, sometimes imagined, in all of which Ivan Ilyich’s participation was required, but of which he could understand nothing . As the wife became more and more capricious and capricious, Ivan Ilyichin also had to learn more and more to bear the burden of her life, and he now began to become more attached to his official duties and became more ambitious than he had been before. Very soon, not more than a year after his marriage, Ivan Ilyich realized that married life, which brought some comforts to life, is in reality a very complicated and heavy institution, for which, in order to fulfill his duties in it , that is, to live a harmonious life accepted by the fine world, one must create a certain relationship, just like for an office. Ivan Ilyich created such a relationship for his married life . He demanded from family life only those comforts which his wife can give him as a hostess, and which concerned, for example, cooking dinner and making the bed, and above all the harmony in external forms, which the opinion of social life had dictated. In everything else he looked for cheerful fun and, if he happened to find it, he was very grateful. If he met resistance and grumbling, he immediately left for that separated, his own fenced-off working atmosphere and forced himself to find charm in it. Ivan Ilyich was respected like a good official, and three years later he was made an assistant to the procurator. The new important duties, the opportunity to summon anyone to court and send anyone to the penitentiary, the public speeches and the success that Ivan Ilyich had in his work — all this attached him more and more firmly to his post. There were children. The wife grew increasingly sullen and angry, but the equipment Ivan Ilyich had built made her almost impervious to these outbursts. After seven years of service in the same city, Ivan Ilyich was transferred to the position of procurator in another county. They moved there, there was little money, and the wife did not like the place they moved to. Although the pay was higher than before, life was more expensive here; moreover, two of their children died, and therefore family life became even more boring for Ivan Ilyich. In all the adversities that happened, after arriving at a new place of residence, the wife always reprimanded her husband. Most topics of conversation between a husband and wife, especially raising children, led to questions that had memories of arguments, and at any moment these arguments could flare up. Only those rare periods of affection that can be found between married partners remained , but which did not last long. They were like small islands on which they disembarked for a while, but from which they again landed in the dark sea of ​​secret hatred to judge and alienate each other. This estrangement could have embittered Ivan Ilyich if he had considered it very wrong, but now he already recognized such a position as quite natural, and even considered it the purpose of his family duties. His chief endeavor now was to gradually free himself from these annoyances, and to give them the stamp of innocuousness and propriety; and he achieved it by associating still less with his family, but when forced to do so, endeavoring to make his position more carefree by the presence of outcasts. So the main thing was that Ivan Ilyich had a post. All the hobbies of his life were focused on this official atmosphere, which completely swallowed him up. The feeling of the power he possessed, the possibility of destroying whoever he wanted, as well as the external dignity when entering the court palace or facing his inferiors, success both in front of his superiors and inferiors and, above all, the skill in managing things that he felt he possessed, – all this delighted him and, together with the conversations of his comrades, the dinner game of cards, filled his life. So that, on the whole, the course of Ivan Ilyich’s life continued as he thought it should continue, namely, in a fun and decent manner. Thus he lived for seven years. The eldest daughter was already 16 years old, then one more child died and the gymnasium boy was left behind – an object of discord. After all, Ivan Ilyich had wanted to send him to a law school, but Praskovya Fyodorovna sent him to a gymnasium, much to his chagrin. The daughter was able to read at home and developed well, and the son, who went to school, did not make bad progress either. Chapter 3. This is how Ivan Ilyich’s life unfolded 17 years after his marriage. He was already a worthy procurator, who could refuse various orders while waiting for a more comfortable place, when quite unexpectedly, an unfortunate incident happened, which almost completely broke the peace of his life. Ivan Ilyich was was waiting for the president’s place in the university town, but a certain Goppe had somehow snuck past him and took the place from him. Ivan Ilyich became bitter, uttered reproaches and quarreled both with him and with his closest superiors. The result was that he was treated coldly, and he was ignored in the next appointment. This happened in 1880. That year was the hardest to endure in Ivan Ilyich’s life. That year it became clear that on the one hand the salary was not enough to live on, on the other hand – that everyone had forgotten him and that what seemed to him the biggest, cruelest injustice in relation to his own person, was a completely ordinary thing to others. Not even his father felt it was his duty to help him. He felt that everyone had abandoned him, considering his position with a salary of 3,500 rubles to be quite normal, even happy. He alone knew that experiencing the injustice that had been done to him, hearing his wife’s constant nagging, and incurring debts and living beyond his means, — he alone knew that his position was absolutely abnormal. In the summer of the same year, in order to save his expenses, he took a leave of absence and traveled with his wife to the countryside to Praskovya Fyodorovna’s brother. But there in the country, being without a post, Ivan Ilyich for the first time in his life felt not only unpleasant, but also unbearable pain, and came to the conclusion that it is impossible to live like this and that it is necessary to take decisive measures. Spending a sleepless night, during which he restlessly paced back and forth on the terrace, he decided to travel to St. Petersburg to organize his affairs and, to punish those who had not liked him, transfer to another administrative department. The next day, despite all the prohibitions of his wife and brother-in-law, he traveled to St. Petersburg. He went on this trip for only one thing: to ask for a place for five thousand rubles. He no longer aimed for any special administrative district, direction or industry. He only needed a position, — a position of five thousand, whether it was in the supreme government, in the banking sector, on the railways, in Empress Maria’s institutions or, for example, in customs, as long as the five thousand came, because it was necessary to resign from his own office, where he was not understood to be valued. And yes: miraculously unexpected success followed Ivan Ilyich on this trip. At the Kursk station, the familiar FS Ilyin got into the first-class carriage and announced that the governor of Kursk had just received a telegram that there would be a change in the ministry these days, that Pyotr Ivanovich would be replaced by Ivan Semyonovitch. The proposed change of location had, apart from its significance for Russia, a special significance for Ivan Ilyich, through the fact that it was to the greatest extent acceptable to him. Namely, Pyotr Ivanovich was a friend of Sakary Ivanovich, who in turn Sakary Ivanovich was a good companion and friend of Ivan Ilyich. After arriving in Moscow, Ivan Ilyich found out that the exchange was real, and upon arriving in St. Petersburg, he immediately met Sakari Ivanovich, from whom he almost got a promise of a secure position in the Ministry of Justice, where he had previously served. A week later, he sent an email to his wife: Sakari appointed to MĂĽller’s place, I will receive my order at the next presentation. As a result of the mentioned personnel change, Ivan Ilyich unexpectedly received an appointment in his former office where he rose a couple of degrees above his colleagues, receiving a salary of five thousand and three thousand five hundred rubles as moving money. All grudges against his former enemies and the entire agency were forgotten, and Ivan Ilyich felt completely happy. He returned to the country happier and more satisfied than he had been in a long time. Praskovya Fyodorovna was also delighted and a truce was established between them . Ivan Ilyich talked about how everyone in St. Petersburg had shown him favor, how all his enemies had now fallen at his feet in shame, how everyone envied his position, and especially how everyone loved a lot there in St. Petersburg. Praskovya Fyodorovna listened to his speeches and believed in everything and did not object to anything, but only made plans for a new order of life in the city to which they had to move. And Ivan Ilyich saw to his joy that these plans were his own, that they fitted together, and that his stumbling life was once more regaining its permanent, cheerful, peaceful character. Ivan Ilyich had only arrived in the country for a short time. On the 10th of September he was to take up his post, and besides, time was needed to organize things in the new place, to transport all the rebels from the countryside, to buy more, and to arrange many other matters , in a word, to arrange everything in the way that had been decided in his brain, and as had almost been decided in the soul of Praskovya Fyodorovna. And now, when everything had gone so smoothly, and when they agreed with the wife in their endeavors, and besides they had lived together only a little before, now they got along so sweetly that no such harmony had prevailed between them even in the first years of their marriage . Ivan Ilyich had at first intended to take his family with him at once, but the earnest entreaties of his sister and Lango, who had suddenly become exceedingly kindred to Ivan Ilyich and his family, caused Ivan Ilyich to travel away alone. The cheerful mood which had been caused by a stroke of luck, and which had been further increased by the agreement with his wife, did not leave him all the time. A cozy apartment was found, exactly the kind that the man and his wife had dreamed of. Spacious, lofty reception rooms built in the old style, a comfortable, grand study, the lady’s and daughter’s chambers, a reading room for the son, — everything as if made for them. Ivan Ilyich set about the decoration himself, chose the wallpaper and curtains, bought furniture, especially the old-fashioned ones, which he thought particularly suitable, and everything grew as he grew towards the very ideal he had set for himself. When he got everything halfway organized, he noticed that the results beat his expectations. He saw that everything, when finished, should have a sense of wonder, a fine and sublime stamp. In his dreams, he imagined to himself how their hall must look when finished! Glancing at the still average guest room, he could already see the fire pit, the nest shade, the jewelry shelf, those graceful chairs scattered around, those plates, cups, bronze mounts along the walls — all already put in their places. He was delighted to think how he would amaze Pasha and Little Lisa, who also had their senses about these things. They don’t expect to see something like this in the slightest! He especially managed to find and buy cheap old rugs, which created a particularly fine overall effect for the interiors. In his letters to his relatives, he deliberately presented everything as worse than it really was — to shock them. All this attracted and excited his mind so much that even the new position, as he had expected, did not attract him to that extent. In the sessions, he sometimes had moments of distraction; he could ponder, for example: what kind of borders to get for the window curtains, straight or pleated. He was so attached to his woodwork that he often busied himself in the sweat of his head arranging furniture, even hanging and arranging window blinds himself. Once he climbed a ladder to show an uncomprehending upholsterer how he wanted the door curtains to be put up, took a wrong step and tumbled down, but being a sturdy and clever man, caught him with his hands and only hurt his side on the fork of the doorpost. The injury was a bit forced, but it soon got better. Ivan Ilyich felt strangely happy and healthy the whole time. He wrote to his relatives: I feel as if I have become 15 years younger! He had thought that he would get the interiors in order in September within, but the work stretched until the middle of October. But it turned out beautiful, not only he said that, but everyone who saw it. However, there was nothing more to look at here than what is usually seen by all people who are not very rich, but by those who want to imitate the rich and only for that reason are like each other: silk coverings, black wood, flowers, carpets, dark glittering bronze utensils, in a word , everything that all people belonging to a certain class use to be like other people belonging to a certain class . Ivan Ilyichkin’s rooms were so fashionable that not even attention was drawn to them; but to him they seemed quite peculiar to him. Then when he had received his relatives at the railway station, conducted them to a lighted, ready apartment, and a footman in a white neckerchief had opened the door–to a hall decorated with flowers, and when they then entered the drawing-room and cabinet, uttering exclamations of pleasure, the master Ivan Ilyich felt himself exceedingly pleased, and ran them about everywhere, absorbing their praises and shining for pleasure. Then , when Praskovya Fyodorovna, as they sat at evening tea, asked him how he had actually fallen from the ladder, he only laughed and showed with his movements how he had flown and startled the upholsterer. — What a gig for an old gymnast! Someone else could have killed themselves in that, but I was just hit by a particle. It still hurts a bit when you touch it, but it will get better soon. And it shows nothing but a bruise. And so they began to live in their new building, which, as always, when things are done briskly, there was only one more room missing; and the new salary was also perfectly sufficient, so that even it did not seem to be missing but an insignificant amount – fifteen hundred roubles. Especially the first time was happy, when everything wasn’t completely organized yet, and there was still all kinds of work to be done, bought, ordered and put in place. Even though there were some disagreements between the husband and the wife, both were still so satisfied, and that’s why there was a lot of fuss that everything ended without major arguments. Then, when there was nothing left to organize, it felt a bit sad, as if something was missing, but then new acquaintances and habits came and went, and life became complete. After spending the morning at the court palace, Ivan Ilyich usually returned home for dinner, and his mood was good at first, although he suffered a little from the housing disease. He was annoyed by every stain on a tablecloth, silk covers or a frayed string on a sharpie. He had put a lot of effort into the organization, so any kind of waste affected his mind very much. But in general, Ivan Ilyich’s life was spent as, according to his belief, it should have been spent — lightly, fun and decently. He got up at 9, drank his coffee, read the newspaper, then put on his uniform and drove to the office. There, he always had those ready-made lines in front of him, which were so familiar that he hit them all at once. Petitioners, chancery cases, sessions — both public and preparatory. From all of this, one had to know how to sift out all the stale matter, which always threatens to break the regular flow of official affairs: one must not allow any relations with people except official ones, and the relations of the subject must be only official, and the relations themselves only official. Now, for example, a person comes and wants to know something. Ivan Ilyich, of course, as a private man, cannot have any relations with such a person; but if this person has something to do with an unauthorized member, something that can be expressed with an official paper and a solemn headline, – within the limits of such relations, Ivan Ilyich will do everything, absolutely everything he can, and follow this human-friendly manners, i.e. politeness. As soon as this official relationship ends, so does everything else. This ability to separate the official side from the real life was possessed by Ivan Ilyich to the highest degree, and with the help of long practice and skill he developed it to such a degree that he, like a professional artist, allowed himself to confuse human and official relations, as if in play . He allowed it to himself because he always felt in himself the power, whenever the need arose, to isolate officialdom again and override human demands. This matter was not only easy, fun and decent for him, but also quite artistic. During his vacations, he smoked cigarettes, drank tea, talked a little about politics, a little about general matters, a little about cards, and most of all about official titles. Tired, but with the feeling of an artist who has carefully performed his part while playing one of the first violins in an orchestra, he then returned home. In the meantime, the mother and her daughters had gone somewhere in the city, or they had someone as a guest; the boy was usually at school or reading his homework under the guidance of the manufacturer, learning verbally everything that was taught in the gymnasium. Everything was fine. After dinner, if there were no guests, Ivan Ilyich sometimes read some book that had been talked about a lot, and when evening came he sat down to his work, so he read papers, studied legal texts, — compared the statements of witnesses and weighed them on the scales of the law. He didn’t find this job boring, if not very funny. When you got bored, you could start playing screwball, but if you didn’t have the chance, this was still better than sitting alone or with your wife. Ivan Ilyich’s hobbies, on the other hand, were small dinners, to which he invited the most prominent women and men of the fine world, and where they tried to make the pastime similar to the usual pastime of such people, just as his guest room was modeled after other guest rooms that could be modeled. One time they also had a dance evening. Ivan Ilyich was also having fun, and everything was fine, although there was a big argument with his wife about pastries and candies; After all, Praskovya Fyodorovna had her own plan, Ivan Ilyich, on the other hand, insisted that all sweets be taken from an expensive confectioner and ordered a large number of pastries from him on his own, and a dispute arose because the pastries were not eaten, even though the confectioner’s bill was 45 roubles. It was a hard and unpleasant quarrel, so that Praskovya Fyodorovna snapped at her husband: damn you, you owl! whereupon the other, clutching his head, came to mention something about divorce in his heart. But the evening itself was hilarious. The guests were of the best company, and Ivan Ilyich danced with Princess Trufonova, the sister of the lady who was known to be the founder of the society called Vanish My Worries. The joys of the civil servant were the joys of self-love, the joys of social life were the joys of vanity, but the true joys of Ivan Ilyich were — the joys of the screw game. He had to admit that after all, even the saddest events in life, there was no sweeter, brighter joy in the world than sitting down at a screw table with good friends and unruffled players, but necessarily four men, because if there are five, then it feels sad to leave the company, even if you are happy and it was refreshing in spirit and truth to let the cards fly, and then have dinner and drink a glass of good wine. If he had also happened to win a little – only a little, because large sums were unpleasant – then the sleep after the screw game would have tasted very sweet and Ivan Ilyich would have left the country in a good mood. That’s how they lived. They had the best circle of friends, prominent people visited them and there were no young gentlemen missing from their house. In their view of their circle of acquaintances, the husband, wife and daughter were completely unanimous, so that even though they were not who had agreed on it, in exactly the same way pushed away all friends and relatives belonging to different circles, all kinds of filth, who unbecomingly came storming into their guest room, the walls of which were decorated with Japanese vases. Such unsanctified friends were soon put to an end, and the Golovins’ social circle remained, as it were, pure. The young lads beat Miss Liisa, and one of them, Dmitri Ivanovich Petrishtshev’s son and the only heir to his fortune, a young lawyer, began to like the girl to such an extent that Ivan Ilyichkin had to whisper about it to Praskovya Fyodorovna, that it would not be worth sending the young people to ride a troika alone or arrange a company play. That’s how they lived, and everything went smoothly, and everything felt very good. Chapter 4. Everyone was healthy. For Ivan Ilyich sometimes said that he had a strange taste in his mouth and something bad on the left side of his stomach. — But it happened that this bad feeling started to increase and change, if not into pain, then at least into a constant pain in the side, which again caused the bitterness of the mood. This bitterness of mood, which grew as it grew, now began to spoil the light and harmonious fun of life, which had already been about to stabilize in the Golovin family. The man now began to quarrel with his wife more and more often, and soon the lightness and fun disappeared, and with difficulty only decency remained; the familiar scenes started to become more frequent again . The only resting places were those pet islands again , but there were few of them and you could no longer resort to them without the risk of an explosion. Now Praskovya Fyodorovna could not without reason say that her husband had a dark nature. In his peculiar manner of exaggeration, he told the people that that terrible nature had been the same all along, and that it would take his goodness to endure such a thing for twenty years. The truth was that the quarrels now started from the man’s side. His quarrels always started right before dinner and often precisely when the plate of soup was placed in front of him and he was about to start eating. When did he remind me that some dish was ruined, sometimes that the food was not decent, sometimes that the son was leaning on the table with his elbows, or that the daughter’s hair was done weirdly. And he blamed Praskovya Fyodorovna for everything. At first, Praskovya argued against Fyodorovna , rejecting the accusations with ugly words, but when the man had been thrown into a rage by this a couple of times at the beginning of the dinner, she understood that this was illness caused in her husband by ingesting food, and calmed herself down so that she no longer argued back, but only hastened to eat. Praskovya Fyodorovna counted this humiliation as a great merit for herself. After noticing that her husband had a terrible nature and that this made her life miserable, she started to feel sorry for herself. And the more she pitied herself, the more she hated her husband. He already began to wish that he would die, but he couldn’t do it from the bottom of his heart, because then he would be left without salary money. And this irritated her more and more against her husband. She considered herself terribly unhappy precisely because the man’s death could not save her, and even though she tried to hide her bitterness, this veiled sadness only increased the anger in her mind. They had once again had such a domestic skirmish, in which Ivan Ilyich had appeared very selfish. When the reconciliation followed and the man explained that his moodiness was caused by some kind of arousal of the illness, the wife thought that if he is sick, he must work to heal himself and demanded that he go to a famous doctor. The man went. Everything happened exactly as he knew very well in advance. He was received with that doctor-like dignity, whose stamp he was familiar with from his own position in the palace of justice. He understood in his spirit all those knocks on the chest that demanded predetermined and apparently unnecessary answers, as well as that significant posture that forced him to submit to the will of the doctor, the doctor who supposedly knows and understands everything and can heal anyone using always the same tricks. Everything happened just like there at the courthouse. The same posture that he had assumed there in front of the defendants, exactly the same posture was also assumed by the famous doctor in front of him. The doctor spoke: this and that fact show that you have this and that in your internal organs; but if this is not evident from these or those characteristics, then you must assume that you have this and that. If we assume that and that, then… etc. Only one question was important to Ivan Ilyich: is his condition dangerous or not? But the doctor had no idea about this irrelevant question. From the doctor’s point of view, such a question was unnecessary and worthless, it only involved weighing assumptions — whether this question was kidney disease, or chronic catarrh, or appendicitis. So there was no question of Ivan Ilyich’s life, there was only a dispute about the kidneys and cecum. And this dispute was settled before the eyes of Dr. Ivan Ilyich in a brilliant way in favor of the cecum, however, making the excuse that the examination of the urine could provide new evidence and that then the matter would be settled once and for all. All of this was exactly the same as what Ivan Ilyich himself had done thousands of times to his defendants with an equally brilliant trick. And just as brilliantly, the doctor made his final statement, solemnly, even happily, looking over his glasses at the patient. From the doctor’s statement, Ivan Ilyich concluded that things are bad, but that it doesn’t matter to him, the doctor, and perhaps to everyone else . And this remark startled him morbidly, rousing in him a great pity for himself, and a bitter hatred of the doctor, who was indifferent to so important a question. But he didn’t bother to argue anything, but got up, put the money on the table and said with a sigh: — we sick people often ask you inappropriate questions? I would like to know if the disease is, so to speak, dangerous or not?… The doctor looked at him sternly with one eye through his glasses as if to say: Accused, if you do not stay within the limits of the questions assigned to you, I will be forced to take measures to remove you from the courtroom. — I already mentioned to you what I thought was necessary and comfortable, — said the doctor. — The end must be shown by a urine examination. And the Doctor bowed good-bye. Ivan Ilyich slowly stepped out of the house, sat down in the sleigh and ordered to drive home. All the way he was constantly recalling everything that the doctor had said, trying to translate those messy, unclear, learned words into simple language and read from them the answer to his question: are things really bad already or is there still nothing to worry about? And it seemed to him that the whole point of the doctor’s speech was that his side was very bad. Driving along the streets, everything about Ivan Ilyich felt sad. Drivers, houses, people walking on the street, shops — all of them now seemed to have the stamp of sadness. And that dull, gnawing pain, which did not subside even for a blink of an eye, seemed now, remembering the doctor’s confused words, to take on a different, much more serious meaning. With strange, heavy feelings, Ivan Ilyich now listened to it freeze inside him. After reaching his home, he began to tell his wife what he had found out about his condition. The wife listened, but in the middle of the story, the daughter entered the room wearing a hat to go out into the city with her mother. He forced himself to sit down to listen to this misery, but he couldn’t wait any longer, and even his mother couldn’t bear to listen to the end. — Well, it’s nice that you went there, — said the wife, — Let’s see now that you start taking medicines regularly. Give me the prescription here and I’ll send Gerasim to the pharmacy. And the lady went to get dressed. The man held his breath as long as the wife was in the room, and panted heavily only after she had left. – Well, what about that, – he thought, – maybe there really isn’t anything to worry about yet . After that, he started taking medicine and following the doctor’s orders, which would still change due to that urine test . But now it happened that there was some confusion in this investigation and in the one that followed it. The doctor himself was difficult to meet, and therefore it happened that it was not done exactly as he had intended. Or was the fault in the fact that the patient had perhaps forgotten something without saying it, or lied, or concealed something from his doctor? Ivan Ilyich, however, began to obey the orders exactly, and this compliance brought him comfort at first. After his visit to the doctor, Ivan Ilyich’s main task was to strictly follow the doctor’s orders regarding health care and taking herbs, and to listen to his own internal pain, all the functions of his own body. Ivan Ilyich’s main hobbies were now human health and human diseases. When in his presence people happened to talk about the sick, the dead, the cured, and especially about an illness that was similar to his own, he listened carefully, even though he tried to hide his mental agitation, inquired about everything relevant and compared it to his own illness. The pain did not ease, but Ivan Ilyich forced himself to think that his side was better now. He could deceive himself as long as nothing bothered him. But as soon as boredom happened with his wife, adversity in office, bad cards in a screw game, he immediately felt the full force of his illness: before, he had endured such adversity in the hope that he would get the bad things cured by fighting and that he would finally win the crown of success. But now every adversity cut into our hearts and drove us to despair. And he said to himself: you can see it now, as soon as I started to get better and the cures already started to work, then this accursed accident will nullify everything… And he got angry at the accident that happened or at the people who bored him and tried to kill him, and he felt that his own anger was going to kill him, but he couldn’t control it. You would have thought that he himself should have realized that this kind of anger at circumstances and people worsens his illness and therefore he should not turn his attention to unpleasant coincidences, but he thought quite the opposite and claimed that he needed peace, kept an eye on everything that even disturbed this peace and became angry at even the slightest disturbance. His condition was also aggravated by reading medical books and consulting with doctors. The deterioration of the condition happened so steadily that he could easily be disappointed when comparing one day to another, because there was not much of a difference. But when he consulted with the doctors, then it seemed to him that the condition was getting worse, even faster. And, despite this, he still consulted with doctors. In the same month, he turned to another famous doctor. That second famous doctor told him almost the same thing as the first one, only putting his question in a slightly different form. Negotiation with this celebrity only doubled the suspicion and terror of Ivan Ilyich. A good friend of his good friend — a very competent doctor — again defined the disease in a completely different way, and despite the fact that he promised to get well, with his questions and conjectures he confused Ivan Ilyich’s mind more and more crazily, causing the man to heal more and more into the power of doubt. A homeopath defined the disease in yet another way, giving his own remedies, and Ivan Ilyich enjoyed those too for a week, though secretly from everyone. But when he didn’t feel any relief after a week, he lost his confidence in both the former methods and this one and sank into greater and greater depression. Once, a familiar lady told him about a miraculous healing with the help of holy images. Ivan Ilyich lost his ears listening to this chatter and believed as if he believed the truth of the event. The narrated incident frightened him. Am I really that mentally debilitated? he thought. Goofy! Everything is rubbish, one must not give in to the power of guesswork, but must strictly stick to the cures of the doctor one has chosen. And so I will, let it be settled now. Get rid of naughty thoughts, because until the summer I’m going to follow exactly the instructions given before. We’ll see you then — and now let’s put an end to these vagaries!… It was easy to think like this, but impossible to implement. The pain still lingered in his side, as if gaining strength and becoming more and more permanent, the taste in his mouth became more and more strange, so that he felt as if a disgusting phlegm was coming from his mouth, and his appetite and physical strength weakened as he weakened. It was no longer possible to be disappointed in himself: something terrible, new and significant, the like of which had never happened before in Ivan Ilyich’s life, was now happening in him. And he alone knew about this, none of the people around understood it or did not want to understand, because they thought that everything in the world was going on as usual. This is what annoyed Ivan Ilyich the most. The people at home, especially the wife and daughter, who were now in the worst fever of their travels , understood nothing, but, as he saw, they resented the fact that he was not as cheerful and willing to visit as themselves, as if it were his fault. Though they try to hide this, yet he saw that he was a hindrance to them, but that his spouse placed himself in a definite relation to his illness, and remained in it, regardless of what the other said or did. This relationship was as follows: You know, said the lady to her acquaintances, that Ivan Ilyich cannot, like other decent people, strictly follow the given medication instructions. Today he may enjoy herbs and eat what he is told to, and go to bed on time, but tomorrow suddenly, when I examine him, he forgets to take his drops, eats pops of sturgeon meat that was not prescribed for him, and even sits up playing cards until 1 o’clock in the morning. — Well, when will you get here! — says Ivan Ilyich indignantly, — if only once I did that at Pyotr Ivanovich’s place. — What about yesterday with Shebek? — Anyway, I wouldn’t have been able to fall asleep from the pain. — Well, no matter how it was, you’ll never get better that way, and you’re just teasing us. Praskovya Fyodorovna’s external relationship with her husband’s illness was such that she considered Ivan Ilyich himself to be the cause of her illness, which she considered to be just another tease towards her wife. The man did feel that his wife didn’t mean anything bad with her accusations, but it still wasn’t any easier for him. In his office, Ivan Ilyich was also noticing the same strange relation to himself: when it seemed to him that he was being watched like a man who was soon going to leave his place empty, when his companions suddenly began to make friendly fun of his presumption, as if that terrible and horrible, unheard-of phenomenon, which was going on in him, and which was constantly sucking him in, taking him somewhere, had been the most amusing and the most suitable spoilage. He was especially annoyed by Shvarz, who with his playfulness, zest for life and demands for company reminded him of himself ten years ago. Sometimes friends could come to play cards at his place. The cards were dealt, the new cards were shuffled, the squares were sorted, there were 7 of them. The player said: without a trump — and it stood 2 squares. Was even more needed? This was a fun, pulsating, all-around great game! But then Ivan Ilyich suddenly feels that gnawing pain in his side, that dull taste in his mouth, and it seems to him that there is something raw about it that in such a state he could enjoy a card game. He stares at Mikhail Mihailovitch, his fellow player, as he, hand full of strength, slaps the table and with polite condescension refrains from taking the pieces, moving them towards Ivan Ilyich, without straining himself or reaching out too far. Is it possible that he thinks I’m so weak that I can’t reach out, Ilyich thinks, forgetting the trumps and hits one too many trumps with his own, and loses his game with three false beats, and what’s most terrible of all, notices how Mikhail Mikhailovich suffers, even though the loss doesn’t matter to him. And it’s horrible to think why he feels indifferent now. Everyone sees that he is having a hard time and tells him: we can stop if you are tired. Please rest. Shall we rest? No, he’s not the least bit tired, let them finish their robbertt. All are gloomy and reticent. Ivan Ilyich himself feels that he has put them in a dark mood, but cannot fix it. They get their dinner and each go home. And Ivan Ilyich remained alone at home, realizing in his soul that his life was poisoned and that he was poisoning the lives of others as well, and that this filth would not disappear, but would penetrate deeper and deeper into his whole being. And with this feeling in his mind, and also feeling bodily pain and soul terror, he must go to bed and often stay awake most of the night in pain. And in the morning he has to get up again, get dressed, drive to the court, talk, write, or if he doesn’t go there, then stay at home for those twenty-four hours a day, each of which is torture for him. And thus had to live on the brink of destruction without a single person who understood or felt sorry for him. Chapter 5. So a couple of months passed. Before the new year, Ivan Ilyich’s brother-in-law arrived in town and stayed with them. Praskovya Fyodorovna happened to be shopping in town and Ivan Ilyich was in his office. When he then came home and entered his room, he met his brother-in-law, such a healthy sanguine, in the process of unpacking his kappa. Hearing Ivan Ilyich’s steps, he raised his head and looked at him without making a sound . This look explained everything to Ivan Ilyich. The brother-in-law opened his mouth to exclaim ah, but was arrested. This move really confirmed everything. — What, have I changed? — Yes, yes… there seems to be a change. And no matter how hard Ivan Ilyich tried to persuade his brother-in-law to talk about his changed appearance, he was strictly silent. Praskovya Fyodorovna came home , and the brother-in-law went to her. Ivan Ilyich locked the door of his room and began to look at himself in the mirror – first directly, then from the side. Took a picture of himself and his wife together and compared the picture to what he saw in the mirror. The change was unusual. Then he bared his arms up to the elbows, looked, rolled down his sleeves, sat down on the tufted sofa, and became darker than the night. No need, no need! he muttered to himself, jumped up, leapt to the table, flung open the documents, tried to read them, but couldn’t. Then he flung the door open and entered the hall. The guest room door was closed. He tiptoed over to it and began to listen. “No, you exaggerate,” said Praskovya Fyodorovna. — I’m not exaggerating! You don’t see it — he’s like a dead person, Just look at the eyes. There is no light in them. But what’s wrong with him? — No one knows that. Nikolaev, it was another doctor mentioned something, but I don’t know. Leshtshetitsky it was that famous doctor said the opposite… Ivan Ilyich went away, went to his room, threw himself and started thinking: kidney disease, kidney disease. She remembered everything the doctors had explained to her, how the ovary was first poisoned and how it moves there. And exerting his imagination, he tried to understand this egg and create a clear idea of ​​it for himself. He felt that it didn’t take much. No, I’m still going through Pyotr Ivanovich’s speeches. This was the friend whose friend was the doctor. He rang the electric bell, ordered the horse to be harnessed and got ready to go. — What now, Jean? — asked the wife with a strangely sad and uncommonly kind expression on her face. That unusually friendly expression annoyed the man. He looked darkly at his spouse. — I must visit Pyotr Ivanovich. And he drove it to a friend who had a doctor as a friend. And with him to the Doctor himself. He met her at home and had a long talk with her. Examining anatomically and physiologically the special points of what, according to the doctor’s opinion, was going on in him, he came to understand everything. There was a tiny little piece in the cecum. It could have been fixed. By strengthening the functioning of one organ, while weakening another, absorption is achieved — and everything will be fine. He was a little late for dinner. Now ate his dinner happily talking, but could not go to work for a long time. At last he went to his room and immediately sat down by his papers. He read documents and did work, but could not shake the feeling that he had some remote, important, soulful thing to do as soon as he was freed from his work. After finishing his work , he remembered that this soulful thing was his pleasure from the caecum. But he didn’t give in to it, but went to the tea table in the guest room. There were guests, they talked, played the piano, sang, and that young lawyer, the daughter’s longed-for groom, was present . Ivan Ilyich spent the evening more cheerfully than anyone else, as Praskovya Fyodorovna pointed out, but he never for a moment forgot that he had special, important thoughts about the caecum. At 11 o’clock he said goodbye and went to his room. From the beginning of his illness, he had slept alone in a small chamber next to his study. Having now come there, he undressed and took Zola’s novel, but, unable to read it, began to think. And in his imagination, that hoped-for cecal healing took place. He felt how absorption and detachment took place and how regular activity became established. Yes, yes, that’s all, — he said to himself. — I just have to help nature. At the same time, he remembered the medicines, got up to take them, and laid back, listening to how beneficially the herbs work and suppress the pain. To be enjoyed in moderation and avoid harmful effects; now I already feel a little better, much better. He started bouncing on his side, and the bouncing didn’t touch the pain. Yeah, that doesn’t feel like it — I think I’m feeling much better already. He blew out the candle and landed on his side… The cecum heals, absorption takes place. Suddenly he felt that old, familiar, dull, nagging pain again, that stubborn, silent, serious trouble. And the same familiar filth in the mouth. His heart convulsed, his brain dimmed. My God, my God! — he said, — again, again I feel it and it never stops. But suddenly the matter appeared to him in a completely different light. Caecum! egg! — he said to himself. — Not the cecum, not the ovary, this matter concerns, but life and… death. Yes, life has been, but now it’s going away, gone, and I can’t stop it. So. Why deceive yourself? everyone can see, except me, that I’m sentenced to death, and it’s only a matter of weeks, days — it could happen right away. Life has been light, now darkness has come. Then I was here — now I’m going there. Where? He felt a chill, his breathing stopped. He could only hear his heart beating. When I no longer exist, what then exists? Nothing. So where will I be when I don’t exist? Do I really have to die? No, I don’t want to. He jumped up wanting to light the candle, groped for the candle with trembling hands, dropped the stand with the candles on the floor and rolled back onto the pillows again. What star? but the same, he said to himself, staring into the darkness with his eyes wide open. — When you have to die, you have to die. But none of them know that, nor do they want to know, and they don’t know how to feel sorry. They just call. He heard a distant voice from behind the door and the hum of a riturnelle. They don’t care about anything now, even though they too have to die one day. Oh crazy people! Earlier for me, later for them, but the same is ahead of them. But now they’re just having fun, those animals! Anger took his breath away, the space felt unbearably heavy and torturous. But it can’t be that everyone is always weighed down by this terrible fear, can it? He rose in his bed. Things are a bit confused, you have to calm down, you have to think everything over again from the beginning. And he began to think. Yes, the beginning of the disease. First I hurt my side, but it didn’t hurt me, I was just as happy day by day after that; then I started to feel a bit of a bump, then a bit more, then I went to the doctors, then the low mood and pain became the order of the day, then I ran to the doctors again; and so I approached my approach to the chasm of doom. My strength was diminishing. I was getting closer and closer. And now I am withered and there is no more light in my eyes. And now comes death, although I’m only thinking about appendicitis here. I brood in my mind to cure it, but here comes death. Is death unreal? Again he was overcome with terror, his breath stopped, he bent down to feel for matches, but worked with his elbow against the bedside table. It was painful, he got angry that the table was in his way, he worked even harder and knocked over the bedside table. And in desperation he collapsed, lying on his back, waiting for death to come in that room. The guests were leaving at the same time, and Praskovya Fyodorovna accompanied them to the hall. He happened to hear a commotion and ran inside. — Now what? — Nothing. I accidentally fell. The lady returned to pick up the candle. The man lay down, breathing heavily and violently , as if he had run a long distance, and looked with staring eyes at his wife. — What’s wrong with you, Jean? — No, nothing. Ka ka ka sin… It’s not worth talking! He doesn’t understand though, he thought to himself. The husband really didn’t seem to understand. She set up the bedside table , lit a candle for her husband and hurriedly left. He had to escort something strange. When he returned again, the man was resting on his back in the same way, staring at the ceiling. — Are you doing worse? — Yes, yes. The lady shook her head and remained seated. — Come on, Jean! wouldn’t it be best to invite Leshtshetitski home to visit? This inviting the famous doctor home meant the same thing as not sparing money. The man gave a venomous smile and stiffly said no. The wife sat still for a while and bent down to kiss her husband on the forehead. The man hated her with all the strength of his soul the moment his wife kissed him, and had to control himself not to push her away. — Goodbye. May God grant you sleep. — Um, yes. Chapter 6. Ivan Ilyich saw that he was dying and was in constant despair. In the depths of his soul , he knew that he was going to die, but he was not only not used to it, but frankly did not realize it and could not possibly understand the whole thing. That syllogism example he had learned from Kiesewetter’s logic, that Kaijus is human, humans are mortal, therefore Kaijus is mortal — had seemed right to him all his life only in relation to Kaijus, but not at all in relation to him himself. In that, Kaijus was just a human to him, a human at all, and that was quite rightly said, but he was not Kaijus and not a human at all, but he had always been a completely separate being: he had only been Vanja, who lived with his mom and dad and Mitja and Volodya with their toys, in the company of Reng and the nanny, then with that pretty Katja, living with all the joys, sorrows, joys of childhood and youth with amusements. But had Kaijus ever smelled that leather drill ball that Vanja liked so much? Was that how Kaijus had kissed his mother’s hand and was it that the folds of his mother’s silk dress had rustled for him in the same way? Had he started a rebellion because of the pastries at school? Was Tokku Kaijus just as loved? And was Kaijus as capable of leading the meeting as he was? That Kaijus was really like a mortal being, for whom it was necessary to die, but for him, for Vanya, for Ivan Ilyich, with all his feelings, thoughts – for him it was a completely different matter. And it could n’t be that he had to die too. That would have been too terrible! That’s how he felt. If I too have to die, like Kaijus, then of course I would know it that way, and an inner voice would tell me so, but I have never had anything like that in me; both me and all my friends, we have understood that it is not at all the same as Kaijus’s side. But where is the wind coming from? — he said to himself. — Impossible, absolutely impossible! And yet it is true. How is this to be explained? And he could not grasp it, but tried to banish this thought from his mind, considering it a false, irregular, morbid phenomenon, and tried to tighten it together with other, regular, healthy thoughts. But this thought, which was not just a thought, but as if it were a reality, surprised him even then and placed itself in front of him. And he attracted to the place of this thought other thoughts in turn, hoping to find support in them. He tried to return to the former tracks of his thoughts, which had previously banished the thoughts of death from him. But strangely , he found that everything that had previously banished, covered and depressed the feeling of death, now no longer did. The last few days Ivan Ilyich had mostly spent in these efforts of ideas, which meant the depressing of the sense of death by the old means. When he spoke to himself again: Let me get down to my official duties with this – after all, that’s what I used to live for. And he went to his office, banishing all suspicions, engaged in discussions with his colleagues, sat down as before, absent-mindedly, surveying the audience with thoughtful eyes and leaning both emaciated arms on the railings of Tamminen’s armchair, bent his body towards his official partner as before, leafed through the document, whispered, and then, suddenly, his eyes widened and as if in terror, uttered the prescribed words until at last he got down to business. But suddenly, in the middle of everything, and not caring at all about the performance of the official matter, I felt a pain in my side, starting its own gnawing action. Ivan Ilyich stooped to make a sound, trying to drive it from his mind, but it continued to act, — and at the same time he, death, came and stood directly before him and looked at him so that he was stunned, so that the fire went out in his eyes, and he began to ask himself again: is it only true? And the comrades and the officials under him noticed to their amazement and dismay that he, that once sharp and brilliant judge, was now meddling and making mistakes. He shook himself to come to his senses and managed to bring the hearing to an end and returned to his home in a sad mood, because the judge was no longer able to hide what he wanted to hide, and the judicial office could not avoid it either. Worst of all was that not that it drew him to it in order that he might do something, but only that he might look at it, look directly into its eyes, and feel an unspeakable agony of soul. To save himself from this state, Ivan Ilyich sought comfort behind other protective curtains, but although they protected him for a moment, they soon again — if not exactly shattered, at least — shone through, as if it had penetrated everything, and nothing could block its way. It may have happened recently that he entered his guest room, which he had once decorated himself, the same room where he had slipped down the ladder, and to decorate which he – however poisonously ridiculous it was for him to think about it now – had sacrificed his life, for from this injury he knew that his disease had begun. It could happen that when he entered, he noticed a bad scratch in the lacquered table, which some sharp object had cut into it. He researched the cause and found it in the bronze frame of the album, which had been twisted askew. He took in his hands that expensive album, which he himself had sensually filled, and lamented the untidiness of his daughter and her friends, finding in it sometimes a torn, sometimes upside-down photograph. He carefully arranged everything again and bent the decorative hela into place. Then he might have had the urge to move all these album trinkets to another corner next to the flowers. He called the footman or the daughter or mother came to help him, and then there were objections and disagreements, so that the old man got angry, but everything seemed fine because he did not then remember the person who harassed him, – it was not visible at the time. But when he himself started to move the furniture, his wife said: don’t touch, the servants will do that, otherwise you’ll spoil yourself again! — and then it suddenly flashed through the curtains again so that he clearly noticed it. It flashed, and he hoped it would disappear, but he started listening to the pain throbbing in his side, — yes, there it sat again, the same mischief, and he could no longer forget it, and he could see death grinning behind the flowers. So what was he working on like this for? And is it not true that in this place, setting up these curtains, I wasted my life, like a man in a storm? How horrible and how naughty! Can it be possible? No, no, and yet it is true. He went to his own room, once again left alone with death. Eye to eye with it — powerless to do anything. Just stare at it and feel a cold shiver! Chapter 7. How Ivan Ilyich’s illness had developed in this way already in the third month of its development, it cannot be told, because the development took place step by step unnoticed, but now it had reached such a point that both his wife and daughter, and his son, his servants, his acquaintances, his doctor, and especially himself — knew that his whole significance in relation to his environment consisted only in how soon he would finally throw his place empty, free the survivors from the anxiety he has caused by his presence, and he himself is freed from his own suffering. His sleep became worse and worse; he was given sleeping pills and injected with morphine, but this did not help him either. The dull ache he felt then in his half hibernation only eased his novelty at first, but then it became as embarrassing, if not more embarrassing, than the original trouble. Special dishes were prepared for him according to the doctors’ prescriptions, but these dishes became more and more disgusting to him every day . Special facilities had also been prepared for his needs , and each use brought him agony. Suffering because of untidiness, indecency and smell, because of the feeling that another person had to help with this. But in this abominable matter Ivan also appeared to Ilyich consolation. You see, the kitchen ring always came to fix his tracks — Gerasim. This Gerasim was a cool-natured, fresh-faced young peasant, on whom the city food seemed to have worked well. He was always cheerful and cheerful. At the very beginning, when this neatly, authentically Russian- dressed man came to deliver that nasty task, Ivan Ilyich was embarrassed. Once, after getting up from the dish and not being able to pull up his pants, he sank into a soft armchair and looked in horror at his exposed, weak legs, where the tendons were blatantly visible. Then Gerasim entered in his thick boots, wafting around him the pleasant smell of boot tar and the fresh winter air, entered with a cane, with powerful steps, wearing a clean hempen apron and a clean cotton shirt, the sleeves rolled up along the strong arms of the youth, and without looking at Ivan Ilyich, as if to keep his bright joy of life from his face, so as not to offend the sick person – went to the dish. — Gerasim… — Ivan Ilyich then said weakly. Gerasim flinched, evidently startled that he had done something wrong, and slyly turned his handsome, pleasant, simple, young face, showing the first traces of shaving, towards his sick master. — What do you tolerate? — Don’t you find this repulsive? Now forgive me, but I can’t help it. — Oh, it’s a good time, replied Gerasim, flashing his eyes and grinning with his healthy white teeth. — Why wouldn’t I see the trouble? You are sore. And with supple, strong hands he performed his accustomed work and went out with light steps. And with just as light steps, five minutes later he returned to the room again. Ivan Ilyich was still sitting in the same position in the armchair. — Gerasim, — he said, when the servant had put the washed dish in its place. — Please come and help me. Gerasim went. — Lift me up. It’s hard for me to get there alone, and I’ve sent Dmitri to the city. Gently and lightly, Gerasim lifted him to his feet with his strong hands, then supported him with one hand, while pulling up his pants with the other, and wanted to seat him again in the armchair. But Ivan Ilyich asked him to help him to the sofa. Without effort and without needing to squeeze him, Gerasim almost carried the sick man to the couch and sat him down on it. — Thank you for how cleverly and neatly you do everything. Gerasim smiled again, wanting to leave. But Ivan Ilyich was so good with him that he did not dare to let him go yet. — Listen, please, move that chair over to me. Not that one, but the other one, and then shove it here under my feet. It’s easier for me when my feet are up. Gerasim brought a chair and lowered it to the floor without crashing and lifted Ivan Ilyich’s legs onto the chair. Ivan Ilyich felt so strangely sweet the moment Gerasim lifted his legs up. “I feel better when my legs are up like this,” Ivan Ilyich continued to explain. — Put that pillow under me. Gerasim did this. Raised his master’s legs again and pushed the pillow under him. Ivan Ilyich felt so sweet again while Gerasim held his legs up. When the servant put them down, he felt worse again. — Gerasim, — she said to him, — are you busy now? — Not at all, Mr. Judge, — replied Gerasim, reaching for the townsman’s speech. — What tasks do you still have? — No matter what tasks I have. As long as I go and chop up the halos for tomorrow, then I’ve done all the work for the day. — Then hold my legs a little longer, as you just held up, — can you? — Why not, it’s good for quality. And Gerasim raised his legs up, so the patient again felt that this position relieved the pain. — When are you going to beat those halos? — Now don’t worry about them. Yes, we will collect from this. Ivan Ilyich told Gerasim to sit down and hold his feet, and spoke to him. And it was strange that he felt so good for so long when Gerasim held his legs like that. From then on, Ivan Ilyich invited Gerasim to his room to hold his feet on his shoulders, and was happy to talk with him. Gerasim also willingly complied with the request, doing his work with such agility and modest benevolence that it greatly soothed Ivan Ilyich’s mind. The health, strength, and briskness of life of all other people offended Ivan Ilyich, but the briskness of this Gerasim did not embitter him, but, on the contrary, calmed him. Ivan Ilyich’s greatest torment was a lie. The lie that everyone knows as good, that he is only sick, but not dying, and that he just has to be calm and follow the healing instructions, which will then lead to something good. But he knew that no matter what was done, there would be nothing but more excruciating suffering and death. And that lie bothered him, he was bothered by the fact that they didn’t want to confess what everyone knew as he did, but they wanted to feed him with lies in this terrible position and forced him to take part in this lie himself. Lie, lie! this lie, concocted on the eve of his death, which lowered that horribly festive truth to the level of all their luxuries, hospitality, and delicacies— it seemed terribly torturous to Ivan Ilyich. And many times , in fact, when they practiced these tricks in front of him, he was just about to shout at them: wake up from lying! for you know as well as I that I will die, so at least wake up from lying! But he never had the courage to say this. He noticed that his whole environment considered this, so terrible to him, death activity only as an occasional boredom or perhaps a similar unsophistication, which is considered, for example, if a person enters a fine guest salon and spreads a bad smell around him; he noticed that the very same nobility that he had served all his life was now trampling him underfoot. In addition, he noticed that no one felt sorry for him because no one even wanted to understand his position. Gerasim alone understood her position and pitied her. And that’s why it was good for Ivan Ilyich to be only in Gerasim’s company. It was good for him when Gerasim sometimes held his legs all night long without wanting to go to sleep and said: Please don’t worry, Ivan Ilyich, yes, I still managed to get enough sleep, when suddenly, starting to caress him, he added: I wouldn’t take care of you like this, if you weren’t in such pain! Gerasim alone did not lie, and everything showed that he alone understood what the matter was about, and he did not consider it necessary to hide it, but downright felt sorry for his weakened master. Once he even said it directly, when Ivan Ilyich was mocking him: — We all die one day. It is only natural that I, who am healthy, strain myself for you! — This is how he expressed with his words the fact that he does not consider his strain heavy precisely because he sacrifices it for the sake of a dying person, but he hopes that for his sake too, when the time comes, someone will sacrifice the same effort. Apart from the said lie, or precisely as a result of it, what caused Ivan Ilyich the most mental torture of all was that no one pitied him as much as he himself wanted. Indeed, he had moments when , after long sufferings, he – although he was very ashamed to admit it – longed in his heart for someone to tenderly pity him as if he were a sick child. And even though he knew he was a worthy greybeard justice, and that this was an impossible dream, he still craved it. His relationship with Gerasim brought this dream a little closer. And therefore it him comforted. But it may have happened that when Ivan Ilyich was having such a moment of tenderness, when he felt like crying and receiving caresses and expressions of pity, his official colleague, member of the court Shebek, entered the room, and instead of crying and caressing his heart – he suddenly became serious , deep in thought on his face and began to slowly express his thoughts about the meaning of the cassation decision, remaining unshakable in his opinions. All this lie that surrounded him , and most of all the lie that he saw in himself, poisoned the last days of Ivan Ilyich’s life. Chapter 8. It was morning. He only knew that when Gerasim left the room and the footman Pyotr entered: he extinguished the night candles, opened one of the windows and slowly began to clean the room. Besides, it did n’t matter what time of day it was, or what day of the week it was, because everything was dimmed by that freezing pain, unresponsive even to a blink of an eye, that feeling of a hopelessly slipping away, false life and an approaching, horrible, hated death, which alone was real. Weeks, days and hours of the day meant nothing here. — Would you like some tea, sir? asked the servant. He seems to be asking that only because gentlemen have a habit of drinking a special substance in the morning, thought the sick man and answered briefly: — I don’t want to. — Don’t you want to move to the couch? It seems that he needs to put the chamber in the harvest, which is why I am here on the road making dirt and creating disorder, thought the patient, and only replied: — I don’t want to, leave me alone. The lackey bustled around the room for a while longer. Ivan Ilyich held out his hand, and when he noticed it, Pyotr obediently approached him. — What do you want? — Give me my watch! Pyotr picked up the watch that was right next to the bed and handed it to him. — Half past eight. Haven’t the others gotten up yet? — Not at all, Mr. Judge. The young man has gone to school and the lady has told herself to wake her up only if you miss her. Shall I go wake you up? — No, you don’t have to. — Shouldn’t I taste the tea anyway? he thought . “Bring that… a pint of that tea,” he said aloud. Pyotr tried to leave the door. Ivan Ilyich began to be horrified by being alone. What would I do to stop him? Yeah, — the drugs. — Hi Pyotr, First give me some medicine. Who knew the drugs would help, thought the patient. He took the spoon and swallowed it down his throat. No, they won’t help. It’s all rubbish and fraud, he decided, as soon as he had felt the familiar, disgusting taste of that mother in his mouth. No, I can’t believe that. But why, why this pain? If only it would make it easier for a moment! And he began to moan. Pyotr turned back. — No, you just go and bring tea. Pyotr went. Left alone, Ivan Ilyich moaned not so much because of his pain, terrible though it was, as because of his inner pain. One and the same, one and the same night and day for a long time! If only it happened sooner. What so? Death, darkness. No, no. Before anything but death! When Pyotr entered with the tea tray, Ivan Ilyich stared at him for a long time, confused, not understanding who he was and what he was doing. Pyotr was taken aback by this look, and only when the sick man noticed it did he regain his senses. — Yes, — he said, — or tea, that’s fine, let’s put it on the table. But then help me wash and change into a clean shirt. And Ivan Ilyich began to wash himself. Taking a break, he washed his hands, his face, brushed his teeth, combed his hair and looked in the mirror. It was terrible for him, — it was especially terrible when the hair flattened so much against the pale forehead. When his shirt was changed, he knew that he would feel even worse if he looked at his body, so he didn’t look at himself. Finally everything was done. He got dressed nightgown, wrapped himself in a diaper and sat down in an armchair with tea. For a while he felt refreshed, but as soon as he started drinking tea, he felt the same taste in his mouth, the same pain in his side. He forced his glass to the bottom and sat down again, straightening his legs. He laid down and let Pyotr go. One and the same. Sometimes a drop of hope flickers, sometimes a sea of ​​despair boils, and still only freezes, freezes pain and pain, and every moment is one like the other. It’s terribly painful to be alone, he feels like inviting someone over, but he knows in advance that it’s even more painful in the presence of others. If only I could get some morphine again , so that I could forget all the misery. Let me tell the doctor that he can come up with something more effective. Because this is absolutely impossible! That’s how he spent a couple of hours. But then the ringing in the hall rang. Oh that it were the Doctor! That’s right, the doctor it was, a young, brisk, stout, cheerful gentleman, who had such expressions on his face as if he wanted to say — that whatever you were freaking out over there, we’ll give you everything right away. The doctor knows very well that it is not acceptable to show such a face here, but he has put it on once before and cannot take it off – just like a person who has already dressed in a tailcoat in the morning and drives around visiting all day. The doctor rubs his hands in a brisk and confidence-inspiring manner. — I’m cold. It’s bitterly cold outside. Let me warm up first, — he says, with such a look on his face that as long as he has time to warm up a bit, he’ll fix things right away. — Well, how are you now? he then asks. Ivan Ilyich feels that the doctor really wants to ask how are you doing now? but that he also feels that he does not dare to say so, and therefore just asks: how did you spend your night? Ivan Ilyich looks at the doctor as if to ask: Aren’t you ever ashamed of lying? Matta, the doctor, is not the most understanding of her expression. And Ivan Ilyich says: — My condition is as terrible as before. The pain doesn’t ease, not sensitive. Couldn’t you come up with something? — Hm, that’s how you sick people always talk. Well, now I guess I’m warmed up enough and not even the careful Praskovya Fyodorovna could argue against my amount of warmth. So allow me to greet you. — And the doctor shakes the patient’s hand. And leaving his playfulness of that time, the doctor with a serious face begins to examine and palpate the patient, the main vein, the temperature — and those knocks and auscultations start again. Ivan Ilyich knows firmly and surely that all this is rubbish and mere deception, but when the doctor, kneeling down, reaches over him, putting his ears up, sometimes down, and with a very significant face, makes him do all kinds of gymnastic movements, Ivan Ilyich surrenders to this without resistance, just as he has agreed to the lawyers’ speeches before, when he already knew very well that they were outright lying, and the reason they lie. While the doctor was thus standing on his knees on the sofa and still finishing his knocking, the rustling of a silk dress and the voice of the lady began to be heard from the door , as she scolded Pyotr for not having been informed of the doctor’s arrival. Praskovya Fyodorovna enters, kisses her husband, and immediately begins to assert that he has risen some time ago, and that it was only because of a misunderstanding that he was invisible when the doctor came. Ivan Ilyich looks at his wife, scrutinizing her from head to toe and blaming her for both her white hair and her plumpness, the cleanliness of her hands and neck, the shine of her hair and the sparkle in her lively eyes. And his touch on her makes him tremble with the anger that wells up in him against his wife. The wife’s relationship with her husband and his illness is still the same. Just as the doctor has formed a relationship with his patients, which he can no longer change, so too has he created a special relationship with his husband — one in which the man does not do what he should, and is himself to blame for his illness, but he tries with love to persuade him to take care of his health — and can no longer change his relationship with him. — Yes, he doesn’t obey and doesn’t take medicine back in the day. And especially he lays down on the ground in such a position, which is probably harmful for him, — feet up. And she told how her husband sends Gerasim to keep his feet up. The doctor smiled gently scornfully: What’s it like that those sick people sometimes come up with such naughty things, but you can forgive them. When the examination was over, the doctor looked at his watch, and then Praskovya Fyodorovna explained to her husband that, whether he wanted it or not, but now he had invited the famous doctor to visit them, and they would come together with this Mikhail Davidovitch — that was the name of the everyday doctor — to examine and judge the patient’s condition. — Don’t worry about resisting anymore. I’m doing it for myself, — she said mockingly, giving the impression that she does everything for her husband, so he has no right to deny it to her. The sick man was silent and frowned. He felt that the lie that surrounded him was so tangled that it was difficult to distinguish anything. Everything that concerned a man was done by the wife only for her own sake, and she really did, but in her speech she brought it out in such a way that the other person had to get quite the opposite idea of ​​the matter. At 12 noon, a really famous doctor arrived at the house. Again, hearings and important discussions were carried out , both present and in the other room, and questions and answers with faces as significant as before – so that once again instead of the real life and death investigation, which would have been the most important thing for the patient, the question arose of the ovaries and appendix, which had somehow risen in rebellion, which both doctors now set out to defeat in order to get them back in order. The famous doctor said goodbye looking serious but not hopeless . To the timid question that Ivan Ilyich asked with raised eyes, eyes flickering with terror and hope, that: is there a chance of getting well? — he replied that of course you can’t go to the guarantee, but that there is a possibility. The look of hope with which Ivan Ilyich followed the doctor as he left was so pitiful that Praskovya Fyodorovna, seeing it, burst into tears even as she left for another room to pay the famous doctor. However , the elevation of spirit that the doctor had brought about with his awakening of hope did not last long. There was the same room again , the same blackboards, extractors, wall paper, bottles of medicine — and the same, my own hollow, suffering body. And Ivan Ilyich began to moan until he was injected and fell into a deep sleep. When he recovered, it was already getting dark — and dinner was brought to him. With difficulty he got the broth to eat, and then everything was as before, and a long, boring night lay ahead. After dinner, at 7 o’clock, Praskovya Fyodorovna entered his room, dressed as if for the evening, with her thick breasts pressed to a bra and traces of powder on her face. She had already reminded her husband in the morning about their going to the theater that evening. It was Sarah Bernhardt’s visiting routine, and they had ordered a shed that Ivan Ilyich had previously urged to get. Now he had forgotten it, and his spouse’s dress offended him. But he hid his hurt, because he remembered that he himself forced them to get a theater and go there because going to the theater was educational for the children and produced aesthetic pleasure. Praskovya stepped in smugly, but a little like guilty Fyodorovna now enter. She sat down by her husband’s bed, inquired about his health, doing it, as it seemed ill, only to ask and not at all to find out, for she knew very well that there was nothing new to hear, and began to explain that she did not at all want to go to the theater, but since the theater had already been bought, and since Helena and her daughter and the daughter’s fiance, Judge Petrishtshev, were also going there, it was impossible to let them go alone. Of course it would be much more fun for her to stay and sit here with her husband! If only this, in his absence, would do according to the doctor’s orders! — Yes, and Fyodor Dmitrievich the groom would also like to come in here. Can he come? And Liisa too? — Just come. The daughter entered in a party dress, her upper body completely exposed, that young body that so brought suffering to the patient. But he had put it on display on purpose. How she was healthy and full of strength, how she was in love with her bridegroom, and hated disease, suffering, and death, which disturbed her happiness! Fyodor Dmitrievich also entered, clad in a tailcoat, his hair curled Ă la Capoul, his long, sinewy neck tightly clasped in a white collar, his infinitely broad gleaming white bosom, and his sturdy legs tucked into tight black trousers . This handsomeness was further enhanced by a white glove pinned to the hand and a collapsible silk hat under the arm. Behind them, a janitor’s boy, wearing a brand new uniform, with polo gloves on his hands and terrible bruises under his eyes, the meaning of which Ivan Ilyich knew, entered without being noticed . The boy had always been a pitiful creature in his father’s opinion. There was something terrible in his startled and pained gaze . Apart from Gerasim, in Ivan Ilyich’s opinion only Volodya could understand and feel sorry for him. Everyone sat down and inquired about the patient’s health again. There was silence. Liisa asked her mother for theater binoculars, which led to an argument between them about who had fixed it and where. This created a nasty mood in the room. Fyodor Dmitrievich asked Ivan Ilyich if he had ever seen Sarah Bernhardt. Ivan Ilyich at first did not understand what was being asked of him, but then answered: no, have you seen him yet? — Yes, in the song Adrienne Lecouvreur. Praskovya Fyodorovna knew how to point out that the said actress is excellent — especially in one song. The daughter protested. And so began a discussion about the beautiful and natural acting skills of the famous actress, such a discussion, which is always the same. In the middle of the conversation, Fyodor Ivanovich turned to look at Ivan Ilyich — and fell silent. The others also rolled their eyes at him and fell silent. Ivan Ilyich, with twinkling eyes, looked directly in front of him , visibly angry with them. This had to be fixed, but there was no way to fix it. I had to put an end to this silence somehow . No one wanted to dare to do it, and everyone began to be horrified that some lie of decency would suddenly be broken, and it would become clear to everyone what really exists. Liisa encouraged herself to be the first to break the silence. He tried to mask what everyone felt, but spoke carelessly. “If we’re going to the theater, then it’s time to go,” she said, after looking at her watch, which was a gift from her father, and smiling barely noticeable, though meaningfully at her fiancĂ©, who alone could have known the purpose of that smile, got up rustling her skirts. Everyone got up, said goodbye and left. When they were gone, Ivan Ilyich felt easier: there was no lie — it had gone with them, but the pain had remained . That same pain, that same horror made nothing feel lighter or heavier. But the general condition got worse and worse. Again moment after moment, hour after hour passed in endless monotony, and the inevitable end became more and more terrible. — Yes, send Gerasim here from there, — answered the patient to Pyotr’s question. Chapter 9. Late at night the lady returned home. She tiptoed into her husband’s room, but he nevertheless heard her coming, opened his eyes and — hastily closed them again. The lady wanted to send Gerasim away and sit by her husband herself. But he said, widening his eyes: — No. Go yourself! — Did you suffer a lot? — The same. — Take opium. The patient agreed and drank. The wife left. Until about 3 o’clock, Ivan Ilyich was in a torturous state of hibernation. He felt that he was being painfully tried to be put into some tight, deep, black sack and threaded deeper and deeper, but could not be pushed all the way to the bottom. And this terrible delivery causes him suffering. He is afraid and does not want to sink there, he fights back and tries to save himself. And kas: suddenly, it’s as if he breaks apart and plunges down and — wakes up. The same Gerasim still sits at the foot of his bed, dozing in all peace and patience, and the emaciated legs of the patient, stuck in stockings, rest raised on his shoulders; the same candle with its shade flickers beside him, and the same unceasing pain burrows through his body. — Go away, Gerasim, — says the sick man. — Right, I’m sitting here. — No need, go away. He let his legs slide off his shoulders, laid on his side, leaning on his elbow and felt a pang of self-pity. He was just waiting for Gerasim to leave the next room to leave him alone, but he couldn’t stop himself any longer, and started crying like a child. He wept over his own helplessness, his own terrible loneliness, he wept over the cruelty of people, the cruelty of God and the invisibility of God. Why have you done all this? Why have you brought me here? For what reason, for what reason do you torture me so terribly? He didn’t even expect an answer, he cried because there is no answer and there never will be. The pain rose again, but he didn’t let up and didn’t call out to his nurse. He muttered to himself: hit again, just hit! But why are you hitting me? What have I done to you, what? Then he sat down, not only from crying, but from breathing, and strained his attention entirely towards one thing: as if he were listening to a voice that spoke not by means of sounds, but the voice of the soul, the flow of thoughts that arose in his spirit. — What do you want? — was the first clear, wordable concept he heard. — What do you want? What do you want? — he repeated to himself. — What? — That you wouldn’t have to suffer. To be able to live! — came the reply. And he surrendered himself again to the power of an inner attention so tense that not even the sensation of pain could draw him out of it. — Live? How to live? — asked the voice of the soul. — Yes, live the way I used to live, — fun and well. — How fun and well did you live before? — asked the voice. And in his imagination he began to select the best moments of that fun life. But, the strange thing is, these best moments of fun life don’t seem at all like they did then. None of them were the same — except for the first childhood memories. There, in childhood, something truly secret was visible that one could have lived with if that time could have returned. But the person who had experienced this sweetness was no longer there, it was just like a memory of someone else. As soon as that began, which resulted in him now, Ivan Ilyich, all the joys of that time now melted into nothingness in his eyes and turned into something insignificant and often abominable. And the further he is from childhood, the closer he is to the present had become, the more insignificant and questionable the happy moments of life had become. It had been like that since school days. Although there had been some sincere good there, there had been hilarity, friendship and hopes. But the upper classes had already had less of these good moments. Then, during the first term of service in the governor’s office, those good moments had appeared again , they were those fond memories. After that, everything was confused again, and there was less and less good left. From then on, good moments had been offered even less than before, and the further he had gotten, the poorer his inner life had become. Getting married… then suddenly also disappointment… and wife’s bad breath, and sensuality, and pretense! And then that mechanically dead job and money worries, and so a year, and so two, and so ten, and so twenty — same going and same monotony! It was as if he had been going down the hill the whole time, imagining that he was going up the mountain. So it had been. From a general point of view, he had gone up the mountain, but at the same time, life had fled beneath him… And here are the results — die away! But then what is it? And why is that? Impossible, absolutely impossible, that life would be so insane, so worthless! And if it were so worthless and senseless, why do you have to die and die suffering? There’s something crazy about this. Maybe I haven’t lived as I should? suddenly popped into his head. But how could I not have lived rightly, when once I have done everything as required? he said to himself, dismissing on the spot the only solution to the whole riddle of life and death , considering it an impossible circumstance. What do you want now? Do they live? And in what way? Is it the way you live in your office, when the servant of justice declares: high justice is coming!… Justice! legal! he repeated to himself. Is this the high court? But it’s not my fault! he shouted angrily. For what reason am I being judged?…And he stopped crying and, turning his face towards the wall, began to think about the one and the same thing: why and for what reason has all this horror come about? But no matter how much he thought, he just couldn’t find an answer. And when it occurred to him what had often occurred to him before, namely the thought that it was all because he had not lived right, he immediately banished that strange thought by remembering how orderly a life he had always led. Chapter 10. Another two weeks passed. Ivan Ilyich no longer got up from his sofa, where he now preferred to rest than in bed. And, lying almost all the time with his face turned to the wall, he still experienced the same inexplicable sufferings, still thinking about his same unresolved thought. What is this? Is it really true that it is death? And the inner voice answered: yes it is true. What is the cause of these troubles? And the voice answered: only without, not for any reason. He didn’t have any longer internal studies. From the beginning of his illness, from the time Ivan Ilyich first went to the doctor, his life was divided into two opposite directions, which alternated alternately: when he despaired of waiting for that incomprehensible and terrible death, when he was full of hope and hobby, he made observations about the functioning of his own body, when he saw in front of his eyes only an ovary or an appendix that had refused to fulfill its duties for a while, when it opened beneath him the terrible chasm of unknown death, from which there was no way to escape. These two moods were mixed with each other right from the beginning of the disease , but the longer the disease developed, the more suspicious and wilder the pleasures from the ovary became, and the more realistic the feeling of approaching death became. It was worth remembering now what he had been for three months backward, and what he was now–to remember how he had gone down the hill step by step, so that all chance of hope was broken down accordingly. His loneliness lately, when he lay with his face turned away from his couch, vaguely aware of the bustle of the big city around him and the existence of numerous acquaintances and relatives , — that loneliness, which could not be greater anywhere, neither at the bottom of the sea nor on earth, such a terrible loneliness of his lately, that is, Ivan Ilyich only with the memories of his past. Image after image of this past now appeared before him. They always started from the closest and ended at the most distant moment in time, childhood, where they stopped. If Ivan Ilyich happened to think, for example, of the plum soup that he was being offered to eat today, he remembered at the same time the ripe, wrinkled, French plums of his childhood and their special taste and juiciness as he chewed them to the bone, and alongside this memory of taste rose a whole series of other ancient memories: his nurse, his brother, his playthings… What about them… it hurts too much, he muttered to himself and moved again to think about the present, where he was first confronted by a button on the sofa and the folds of the saffian. Saffron is expensive but loose; they had an argument with the wife about it. But that saffian was different, and the quarrel was different when we once tore up dad’s briefcase and we were told by no one, but mom — she brought pretzels. And again the image of childhood stopped and again it hurt Ivan Ilyich, and he tried to banish the images from him and think about other things. And at the same time, in his soul, alongside these memories, another series of images appeared, which told the course of his disease. The further back he remembered, the more he saw life there too. More good things in life and more life itself. But both sets of images merged. And he thought: just as the tortures are getting worse, so too the whole life has changed for the worse. There had been only one bright spot back there in the morning of life, but then it had quickly darkened. Backwards in proportion to the squares of the distances, thought Ivan Ilyich. And he was reminded of the natural science example of a rock flying downwards through space with increasing speed. Life, that series of swelling sufferings, plunges from its plunge towards the end into its most terrible suffering. In other words: it is I who saw the flight downwards towards death… He shuddered, moved and wanted to resist, but he already knew that it was impossible to resist, and again he raised those eyes, tired of looking – which he found it difficult to detach from what loomed before him – from his couch, and waited, waited for that terrible fall, that blow of his brokenness. It’s impossible to resist, he thought to himself. But if you even understood why it is necessary? But even that is impossible. It could perhaps be explained, however, if it could be said that I have not lived as I should. But of course it’s impossible to admit that now, he criticized himself, remembering all the legality, regularity and decency of his life. You can’t even expect that from a man like me! he smiled to himself with his lips as if someone could see this smile of his and be deceived by it. It’s not like I have an explanation! So where does suffering and death come from? Chapter 11. So two weeks passed. During these two weeks, the event that Ivan Ilyich and his wife wished for happened. Petrishtshev publicly proposed to a girl. It happened one evening. The next day, Praskovya Fyodorovna entered her husband’s room with the intention of somehow expressing Fyodor Dmitrievich’s proposal to him, but that same night another turn for the worse had happened to the patient. Praskovya Fyodorovna met her husband on the same couch as before, but in a different position. He was lying on his back, writhing, and the gaze was staring straight ahead. The lady started talking about medicine. The patient shifted his gaze to her. The wife did not finish what she had intended to say, because such hatred, especially towards her, appeared in this look. — In the name of Christ, let me die in peace! said the sick man. The lady tried to leave, but at the same time her daughter also entered and went to greet her father. This one looked at his daughter in the same way as he looked at his wife, and dryly answered her health questions that he would soon free them all from himself. Both women fell silent, sat still and went away. — Are we the culprits here? — Liisa crocheted to her mother. — Just as if we had done it! I feel sorry for papa, but do we need to be bullied too? The doctor arrived at the usual time. Ivan Ilyich answered him briefly, yes and no, without letting go of his angry gaze, and finally said: — You know you can’t help in the slightest, so leave me alone! — We can ease the suffering, — guessed the doctor. — Of course you can’t do that either, — leave me alone. The doctor went into the drawing-room and informed Praskovya Fyodorovna that things were very bad there, and that the only way was— opium, to alleviate the sufferings, which might be terrible. The doctor spoke of the horror of his bodily sufferings, and it was true, but more terrible than his bodily sufferings were his chaste sufferings, for therein was his greatest torture. His moral pains were caused by the fact that the night before, when he happened to glance at Gerasim’s sleepy, good-natured, strong face, a thought had suddenly struck his head: what, if indeed my whole life, my self-conscious life – had not been as it should have been? It had dawned on him that what had seemed impossible to him before, namely that he hadn’t lived his life as he should have, could be true. It had dawned on him that those barely noticeable attempts at struggle against what people in higher positions thought good, those innocent attempts at rebellion of his, which he had always immediately shrugged off, that they might be justified, and that everything else might be wrong. Also his bread making, his life system, his family life, all those cultural hobbies and official duties, all of that could have been wrong. He had tried to defend all this in front of himself, but now suddenly he had felt how frail and weak what he had defended was . There was nothing to defend about it! But if it is so, – said he to himself, – and I leave life knowing that I have spoiled everything that was given to me, and this can no longer be repaired, then – what then? He turned on his back and began to review his whole life in a completely new way. And when the morning came, he saw the footman, and then his wife, then his daughter, then his doctor, then their every move, every word they spoke confirmed to him the truth that had opened to him in the night. For he saw in them his own self, all that he had lived by, and saw clearly that nothing was of any value, but all was a terribly great deception that had darkened both life and death. This awareness increased his physical suffering tenfold. He sobbed and tossed and turned on his bed and tore the clothes around him. They felt like they were squeezing him so that he was falling into them. And that’s why he hated them. He was given a strong dose of opium, from which he fell into a trance, but at dinner time the pains began again. He drove everyone away from him and tossed them here and there. The wife came to him and said: — Jean dear, do it for me, you hear, for me. It can’t hurt, but often helps… It doesn’t hurt anything. Often healthy… Ivan Ilyich opened his eyes wide: – What? God bless you? For what reason? — No need! Or… well…
The lady started to cry. — Will you agree, good friend? I call it our priest, he is so gentle. — Good, good, let it go, — said the sick man. When the priest had visited and scourged him, he softened and felt, as it were, relief from his doubts and his sufferings because of it, and hope filled his soul for a moment. He started thinking about the appendix again and its possible cure. With tears in his eyes, he enjoyed communion. When he was laid to rest after communion, he was light for a while, and he felt the will to live again. He began to think about the operation that had been proposed to him. Live, I want to live! he said to himself. His wife came to congratulate him, saying the usual words and adding: — Don’t you feel better now? And without looking at him, murmured the patient: yes. The lady’s dress and body, the expression on her face and the tone of her voice — all told him the same thing: that’s not it. All that you have lived by and are still living by is a lie, a deception that darkens life and death from you. And as soon as he thought, his anger was kindled, and with the anger came cruel bodily pains, and with the pains a sense of impending doom. Something new seemed to be happening in his internal organs: there began to twist and shoot and stop breathing. The look on his face when he said the words so yes was horrible. Having said that, and looking straight into his wife’s eyes, he, with a suddenness rare for his weakness, rolled onto his stomach and growled: — Go away, go away, leave me alone! Chapter 12. From this moment began that scream, lasting three days in a row, which was so horrible that it was impossible not to hear it even behind two doors without being terrified. In the blink of an eye, in which he had given his wife an affirmative answer, he had realized that she was lost, that there was no going back, that the end had come, the end was complete, but that the doubt would remain forever unresolved. — Oh! yes! yes! — he shouted in different tones. Once he started shouting that sound, he shouted it all the time. For three whole days, during which he knew nothing of the passing of time, he wallowed in that black sack, on the bottom of which an invisible force pressed him. He tumbled until he tumbled condemned to death in the executioner’s grip, knowing that he could not save himself, and he felt how every moment, in spite of all his efforts, he plunged closer to that which terrified him. He felt that his torture was caused both by the fact that he had to plunge into this black hole and even more by the fact that he could not fit through it. The self-esteem that his life has been good prevents him from fitting in . It was this acceptance of his life that stopped him from moving forward and bothered him the most. Suddenly, some force pushed him in the chest and side so that his breathing stopped even worse, and he plunged down into the chasm, and – there at the bottom of the chasm, something dawned on him. What happened to him was what had happened to him before in a railroad car, when you think you’re going forward, but you feel as if you’re going backwards, and then suddenly you realize the true direction. Yes, nothing has been that, he said to himself. — But it doesn’t matter. You can still do it. What is that: that? he asked himself and fell silent suddenly. This happened at the end of the third day, two hours before his death. At the same time, the gymnasium boy crept into his father’s room and went to his bedside. The dying person screamed desperately, flailing his arms. His hand hurt the boy’s head. The boy grabbed it, pressed it to his lips and burst into tears. At the exact same moment, Ivan Ilyich plunged into that abyss, saw the light, and it became clear to him that his life had not been what it should have been, but that it could still be fixed. He asked himself: what is that? — and fell silent, listening for an answer. Then he felt someone kiss his hand and, when he opened his eyes, he saw his son standing next to him. He felt sorry for the boy. His wife approached him. The dying one cast his eyes on him as well. The wife looked at him with her mouth open and an unwiped tear on her nose and cheek, a look of despair on her face. The dying person also felt pity for him. Yes, I am a nuisance to them, — he thought. — They mourn me, but it will be better for them when I die. He wanted to say this to them, but couldn’t get the words out of his mouth. But what’s the use of talking, actions are needed here, he thought. He pointed to his wife with his eyes on the boy and said: – Take him away… I feel sorry for… You too… – He wanted to say forgive me, but ended up saying let go, and unable to correct the mistake anymore, he just waved his hand, knowing that he would be understood by anyone who wants to. And suddenly it became clear to him that what had been weighing on him and hadn’t gone away, that it was all going away now at once — from two branches, from ten branches, from all branches. Pity them, relatives, — you have to do it so that you don’t touch them painfully. Free them — and free yourself from suffering. What a sweet and simple thing! — he thought. — But the pain? he asked himself. What has it gotten into? — Hohoi, where are you pain? He began to listen. Is that where it is? Well, what about him — just let it go! But death? Where is it? He was looking for his former, his eternal fear of death and he couldn’t find it. Where is it? what is death like — there was no more fear , because there was no death either. Instead of death, there was light. — That’s amazing! — he said suddenly in his voice. — What joy in my breast! All this happened to him in the blink of an eye, and the meaning of this blink of an eye never changed. In the eyes of those present, however, his death struggle lasted another two hours. Something rumbled in his chest, and that paralyzed body still trembled. Then the grunting and snoring became less frequent. — Finished! — said someone next to him. He heard these words and repeated them in his soul. Death is over, he said to himself. — It doesn’t exist anymore. He drew in air, stopped mid-breath, straightened up — and died. Written on March 25 v. 1886. You have just listened to Leo Tolstoy’s story “Death”, which opened a window into the inner struggle of man and how the reality of death shapes our understanding of life. Tolstoy reminds us that death is not only the end, but also an opportunity to see our existence in a new light – its value, depth and meaning. I hope this story encouraged you to reflect on your own life choices and find a new kind of clarity and strength in them. Thank you for listening, and a warm welcome to the following classic works on our channel Audiobooks Suomeksi.
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