Текст книги "The Eternal Husband and Other Stories"

Автор книги: Федор Достоевский

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“Well… here I am, suppose, going in: they’re amazed, interrupt their dancing, stare wildly, back away. Right, sir, but here I show myself: I go straight to the frightened Pseldonymov and, with the tenderest smile, in the simplest words possible, say: ‘Thus and so,’ I say, ‘I was visiting His Excellency Stepan Nikiforovich. I suppose you know, it’s here in the neighborhood …’ Here I tell, lightly, in some amusing way, the adventure with Trifon. From Trifon I pass on to how I went by foot… ‘Well—I hear music, I ask a policeman, and find out that you, brother, are getting married. Why don’t I stop at my subordinate’s, I think, to see how my clerks make merry and… get married. Now, you’re not going to drive me out, I suppose!’ Drive out! What a phrase for a subordinate. The devil he’ll drive me out! I think he’ll lose his mind, he’ll rush headlong to sit me in an armchair, he’ll tremble with delight, he won’t even know what to make of it at first!…

“Well, what could be simpler, more gracious, than such an act! Why did I come? That’s another question! That’s, so to speak, the moral side of the matter. There’s where the juice is!

“Hm… What was I thinking about? Ah, yes!

“So then, of course, they’ll seat me next to the most important guest, some titular councillor, or a relative, a retired staff captain with a red nose… Gogol described these originals nicely. So, naturally, I make the acquaintance of the bride, praise her, encourage the guests. I beg them not to be embarrassed, to make merry, to go on dancing, I joke, I laugh, in short—I’m amiable and charming. I’m always amiable and charming when I’m pleased with myself. Hm… the thing is that I still seem to be a bit… that is, not drunk, but just…

“… Naturally, being a gentleman, I’m on an equal footing with them and by no means demand any special tokens… But morally, morally it’s another matter: they’ll understand and appreciate… My act will resurrect in them all the nobility of… And so I sit there for half an hour… Even an hour. I’ll leave, naturally, just before supper, otherwise they’ll start bustling about, baking, frying, they’ll bow low before me, but I’ll just drink a glass, congratulate them, and decline supper. I’ll say: business. And as soon as I pronounce ‘business,’ their faces will all become respectfully stern at once. By this I’ll delicately give a reminder that they and I are—different, sirs. Earth and sky. Not that I’d want to impose it, but it’s needed… even in the moral sense it’s necessary, whatever you say. However, I’ll smile at once, even laugh, perhaps, and everyone will instantly cheer up… I’ll joke once more with the bride; hm… and even this: I’ll hint that I’ll come again in exactly nine months as a godfather, heh, heh! And she’ll certainly give birth by then. Because they multiply like rabbits. So everyone bursts out laughing, the bride blushes; I kiss her on the forehead with feeling, even bless her, and… tomorrow my deed is already known in the office. Tomorrow I’m stern again, tomorrow I’m demanding again, even implacable, but by now they all know who I am. They know my soul, they know my essence: ‘He’s stern as a superior, but as a man he’s an angel!’ And so I’m victorious; I’ve caught them with some one small act that wouldn’t even occur to you; they’re mine now; I’m the father, they’re the children… Go on, Stepan Nikiforovich, Your Excellency, try doing something like that…

“… But do you know, do you understand, that Pseldonymov will recall for his children how the general himself feasted and even drank at his wedding! And those children will tell their children, and they will tell their grandchildren, like a sacred anecdote, that a dignitary, a statesman (and I’ll be all that by then) deigned… etc., etc. But I’ll raise the humiliated one morally, I’ll restore him to himself… He gets a salary of ten roubles a month! But if I were to repeat this or some such thing five or ten times, I’d win popularity everywhere… I’d be impressed on everybody’s heart, and the devil alone knows what might come of it later, this popularity!…”

Thus or almost thus reasoned Ivan Ilyich (gentlemen, a man sometimes says all sorts of things to himself, and in a somewhat peculiar state besides). All this reasoning flashed through his head in about half a minute, and, of course, he might have limited himself to these little dreams and, having mentally shamed Stepan Nikiforovich, gone quite calmly home and to bed. And it would have been well if he had! But the whole trouble was that the moment was a peculiar one.

As if on purpose, suddenly, at that very instant, his susceptible imagination pictured the complacent faces of Stepan Nikiforovich and Semyon Ivanovich.

“We won’t hold out!” Stepan Nikiforovich repeated, smiling superciliously.

“Hee, hee, hee!” echoed Semyon Ivanovich with his nastiest smile.

“And now let’s see how we won’t hold out!” Ivan Ilyich said resolutely, and his face even flushed hotly. He stepped off the planks and with firm tread went straight across the street to the house of his subordinate, the registrar Pseldonymov.

His star drew him on. He walked briskly through the open gate and in disdain shoved aside with his foot the hoarse, shaggy little cur that, more for decency’s sake than meaning any business, rushed at his legs with a rasping bark. By a wooden boardwalk he reached a covered porch, jutting like a booth into the yard, and by three decrepit wooden steps he went up to a tiny entryway. Though a tallow candle-end or something like a lamp was burning somewhere in a corner, that did not prevent Ivan Ilyich, just as he was, in galoshes, from stepping with his left foot into a galantine set out to cool. Ivan Ilyich bent down and, looking with curiosity, saw standing there two more dishes of some sort of aspic, as well as two molds, obviously of blancmange. The squashed galantine embarrassed him a bit, and for one tiny instant the thought flitted through him: shouldn’t I slip away right now? But he considered it too low. Reasoning that no one had seen and that no one was going to suspect him, he quickly wiped off the galosh, so as to conceal all traces, groped for the felt-upholstered door, opened it, and found himself in the tiniest of anterooms. One half of it was literally heaped with overcoats, caftans, cloaks, bonnets, scarves, and galoshes. In the other half the musicians had settled: two fiddles, a flute, and a string bass, four men in all, brought in, naturally, from the street. They were sitting by an unpainted wooden table, with one tallow candle, and sawing away for all they were worth at the last figure of a quadrille. Through the open door to the main room people could be seen dancing, in dust, smoke, and haze. It was somehow furiously merry. Guffaws, shouts, and ladies’ shrieks were heard. The cavaliers were stomping like a squadron of horses. Above this whole pandemonium sounded the commands of the master of ceremonies, probably an extremely unconstrained and even unbuttoned man: “Cavaliers, step out, chaîne de dames, balancez!” ¹⁶and so on and so forth. Ivan Ilyich, in some slight agitation, threw off his fur coat and galoshes and, holding his hat, entered the room. Anyhow, he was no longer reasoning …

For the first moment no one noticed him: they were all finishing the end of the dance. Ivan Ilyich stood as if stunned and could make out nothing of this porridge in detail. Ladies’ dresses, cavaliers with cigarettes in their teeth flashed by… some lady’s light blue scarf flashed by and brushed his nose. After her, in furious ecstasy, a medical student swept, his tousled hair all in a whirl, and shoved him hard on his way. Before him also flashed, long as a milepost, an officer of some regiment. Someone shouted in an unnaturally shrill voice as he flew by, stomping, with everyone else: “E-e-eh, Pseldonymushka!” There was something sticky under Ivan Ilyich’s feet: the floor must have been waxed. In the room, not a small one incidentally, there were upward of thirty guests.

But a minute later the quadrille was over, and almost at once the very thing took place which Ivan Ilyich had imagined as he was dreaming on the plank sidewalk. Some sort of hum, some sort of extraordinary whisper passed through the guests and dancers, who had not yet had time to catch their breath and wipe the sweat from their faces. All eyes, all faces quickly began to turn to the newly entered guest. Then at once everyone started slowly retreating and backing away. Those who had not noticed were pulled by the clothes and brought to reason. They would look around and at once start backing away along with the others. Ivan Ilyich went on standing by the door, not taking one step forward, and the open space between him and the guests, the floor strewn with countless candy wrappers, tickets, and cigarette butts, was growing wider and wider. Suddenly a young man in a uniform, with wispy blond hair and a hooked nose, timidly stepped into this space. He moved forward, bending, and looked at the unexpected guest in exactly the same way as a dog looks at its master who has called it in order to give it a kick.

“Hello, Pseldonymov, recognize me?…” said Ivan Ilyich, and in that same instant felt that he had said it terribly awkwardly; he also felt that at that moment he was, perhaps, committing the most frightful foolishness.

“Y-Y-Your Ex-cellency!…” mumbled Pseldonymov.

“Well, so there. I stopped entirely by chance, brother, as you can probably imagine…”

But Pseldonymov obviously could not imagine anything. He stood, goggle-eyed, in terrible bewilderment.

“You won’t drive me out, I suppose… Glad or not, welcome the guest!…” Ivan Ilyich went on, feeling that he was abashed to the point of indecent weakness, that he wished to smile but no longer could; that the humorous story about Stepan Nikiforovich and Trifon was becoming more and more impossible. But Pseldonymov, as if on purpose, would not come out of his stupor and went on staring at him with an utterly foolish look. Ivan Ilyich cringed, he felt that another minute like this and an incredible bedlam would break out.

“Maybe I’ve interfered with something… I’ll go!” he barely uttered, and some nerve twitched at the right corner of his mouth …

But Pseldonymov recovered himself…

“Your Excellency, good heavens, sir… The honor…” he was mumbling, bowing hurriedly, “deign to sit down, sir…” And, still more recovered, he showed him with both hands to the sofa, from which the table had been moved aside for the dancing …

Ivan Ilyich felt relieved and lowered himself onto the sofa; someone rushed at once to move the table back. He glanced around cursorily and noticed that he alone was sitting down, while all the others were standing, even the ladies. A bad sign. But it was not yet time to remind and encourage. The guests still kept backing away, and before him, bent double, there still stood Pseldonymov alone, who still understood nothing and was far from smiling. It was nasty; in short: during this moment our hero endured such anguish that his Harun-al-Rashidian ¹⁷invasion of his subordinate, for the sake of principle, could actually have been considered a great deed. But suddenly some little figure turned up beside Pseldonymov and started bowing. To his inexpressible pleasure and even happiness, Ivan Ilyich at once recognized him as a chief clerk from his office, Akim Petrovich Zubikov, with whom he was not, of course, acquainted, but whom he knew to be an efficient and uncomplaining official. He immediately rose and proffered Akim Petrovich his hand, the whole hand, not just two fingers. The man received it in both of his palms with the deepest reverence. The general was triumphant; all was saved.

And actually Pseldonymov was now, so to speak, not the second, but the third person. He could turn directly to the chief clerk with his story, necessarily taking him as an acquaintance and even a close one, and Pseldonymov meanwhile could simply keep silent and tremble with awe. Consequently, decency was observed. And the story was necessary; Ivan Ilyich felt it; he saw that all the guests were expecting something, that even all the domestics were crowding both doorways, almost climbing on one another in order to see and hear him. The nasty thing was that the chief clerk, in his stupidity, still would not sit down.

“Come, come!” said Ivan Ilyich, awkwardly indicating the place beside him on the sofa.

“Good heavens, sir… here’s fine, sir…” and Akim Petrovich quickly sat down on a chair, offered him almost in flight by Pseldonymov, who stubbornly remained on his feet.

“Can you imagine what’s happened,” Ivan Ilyich began, addressing Akim Petrovich exclusively, in a somewhat trembling but now casual voice. He even drew out and separated the words, emphasized their syllables, began to pronounce the letter asomehow like ah—in short, he himself felt and was aware that he was being affected, but was no longer able to control himself; some external force was at work. He was painfully aware of terribly much at that moment.

“Can you imagine, I’m only just coming from Stepan Nikiforovich Nikiforov’s—you’ve heard of him, perhaps, a privy councillor. Well… on that commission…”

Akim Petrovich leaned his whole body forward deferentially, as if to say: “How could I have not heard, sir.”

“He’s your neighbor now,” Ivan Ilyich went on, momentarily addressing Pseldonymov, for the sake of propriety and naturalness, but quickly turning away, seeing at once from Pseldonymov’s eyes that it made decidedly no difference to him.

“The old man, as you know, was raving all his life about buying himself a house… So now he’s bought it. The prettiest little house. Yes… And today also happened to be his birthday, though he never celebrated it before, even concealed it from us, making excuses out of stinginess, heh, heh! and now he’s so glad of his new house that he invited me and Semyon Ivanovich. You know—Shipulenko.”

Akim Petrovich leaned forward again. Zealously leaned forward! Ivan Ilyich was somewhat comforted. For it had already occurred to him that the chief clerk might perhaps surmise that, at that moment, he was a necessary point of support for His Excellency. That would have been nastiest of all.

“Well, we three sat there, he stood us to some champagne, talked about business… Well, about this and that… about pro-blems… Even had a little dis-pute… Heh, heh!”

Akim Petrovich deferentially raised his eyebrows.

“Only that’s not the thing. I finally say good night to him, he’s a punctual old man, goes to bed early—old age, you know. I go out… my Trifon isn’t there! I worry, I ask: ‘What did Trifon do with the carriage?’ It turns out that, in hopes I’d stay long, he went to the wedding of some female crony of his or else his sister… God knows with him. Somewhere here on the Petersburg side. And incidentally took the carriage.” Again, for propriety’s sake, the general glanced at Pseldonymov. The man bent double instantly, but not at all in the way the general would have liked. “No sympathy, no heart,” flashed in his head.

“You don’t say!” said the deeply struck Akim Petrovich. A little hum of astonishment went through the whole crowd.

“Can you imagine my position…” (Ivan Ilyich glanced at them all.) “No help for it, I set out by foot. I thought I’d toddle along to Bolshoi Prospect, and there find some cabbie… heh, heh!”

“Hee, hee, hee!” Akim Petrovich echoed deferentially. Again a hum, now on a merry note, passed through the crowd. At that moment the glass of a wall lamp cracked with a loud noise. Someone zealously rushed to put it right. Pseldonymov roused himself and gave the lamp a stern look, but the general did not even pay attention, and everything quieted down.

“I’m walking… and the night is so beautiful, still. Suddenly I hear music, stomping, dancing. I ask a policeman: Pseldonymov’s getting married. So, brother, you’re throwing a ball for the whole Petersburg side? ha, ha,” he suddenly addressed Pseldonymov again.

“Hee, hee, hee! yes, sir…” echoed Akim Petrovich; the guests stirred again, but the stupidest thing of all was that Pseldonymov, though he did bow again, even now did not smile, just as if he were made of wood. “Is he a fool, or what?” thought Ivan Ilyich. “The ass ought to have smiled now, then everything would go swimmingly.” Impatience raged in his heart. “I thought, why not visit my subordinate. He won’t drive me out… glad or not, welcome the guest. Excuse me, please, brother. If I’m interfering, I’ll go… I only stopped to have a look…”

But little by little a general movement was beginning. Akim Petrovich gazed with a sweetened air, as if to say: “Could Your Excellency possibly interfere?” All the guests were stirring and beginning to show the first tokens of casualness. The ladies almost all sat down. A good and positive sign. Those who were braver fanned themselves with handkerchiefs. One of them, in a shabby velvet dress, said something deliberately loudly. The officer she had addressed also wanted to reply loudly, but since the two of them were the only loud ones, he passed. The men, most of them clerks, plus two or three students, exchanged glances, as if urging each other to loosen up, coughed, and even began making a couple of steps in different directions. Anyhow, none of them was particularly timid, only they were all uncouth and almost all of them looked with animosity at the person who had barged in on them to disrupt their merry-making. The officer, ashamed of his pusillanimity, gradually began to approach the table.

“But listen, brother, allow me to ask your name and patronymic?” Ivan Ilyich asked Pseldonymov.

“Porfiry Petrovich, Your Excellency,” the man replied, goggle-eyed, as if on review.

“Now then, Porfiry Petrovich, introduce me to your young wife… Take me to… I…”

And he made a show of getting up. But Pseldonymov rushed headlong to the drawing room. The young bride, however, had been standing right at the door, but on hearing that the talk was about her, she hid at once. A minute later Pseldonymov led her out by the hand. Everyone made way, letting them pass. Ivan Ilyich rose solemnly and addressed her with a most amiable smile.

“Very, very glad to make your acquaintance,” he said with a most high-society half bow, “and what’s more on such a day…”

He gave a most insidious smile. The ladies got pleasantly excited.

“Sharmay,” the lady in the velvet dress said almost aloud.

The bride was worthy of Pseldonymov. This was a thin little damsel, still only some seventeen years old, pale, with a very small face and a sharp little nose. Her small eyes, quick and furtive, were not at all abashed, but, on the contrary, looked at him intently and even with a certain tinge of spite. Obviously, Pseldonymov had not taken her for her beauty. She was wearing a white muslin dress with pink doubling. Her neck was skinny, her body like a chicken’s, all protruding bones. To the general’s greeting she was able to say precisely nothing.

“Yes, you got yourself a pretty little thing,” he went on in a low voice, as if addressing Pseldonymov alone, but purposely so that the bride heard it, too. But Pseldonymov said precisely nothing here as well, and this time did not even sway. It even seemed to Ivan Ilyich that there was in his eyes something cold, secretive, even something kept to himself, peculiar, malignant. And yet he had at all costs to get at some feeling. It was for that he came.

“A fine pair, though,” he thought. “However…”

And he again addressed himself to the bride, who was placed beside him on the sofa, but all he received to his two or three questions was again only a “yes” or a “no,” and in fact he did not quite receive even that.

“If only she’d get a little embarrassed,” he went on to himself. “Then I could start joking. Otherwise there’s no way out.” And Akim Petrovich, as if on purpose, was also silent, though only out of stupidity, but still it was inexcusable.

“Gentlemen! am I not perhaps interfering with your pleasures?” he tried to address everyone in general. He felt that his palms were even sweating.

“No, sir… Don’t worry, Your Excellency, we’ll get started right away, and for now… we’re cooling our heels, sir,” the officer replied. The bride glanced at him with pleasure: the officer was still young and wore the uniform of some command or other. Pseldonymov stood right there, thrusting himself forward, and seemed to stick his hooked nose out still more than before. He listened and watched, like a lackey who stands holding a fur coat and waiting for the parting words of his masters to come to an end. Ivan Ilyich made this comparison himself; he was at a loss, felt that he was ill at ease, terribly ill at ease, that the ground was slipping from under his feet, that he had gotten somewhere and could not get out, as if in the dark.

Suddenly everyone stepped aside, and a heavyset and not very tall woman appeared, elderly, simply dressed though with some festiveness, a big shawl around her shoulders, pinned at the throat, and wearing a bonnet to which she was obviously not accustomed. In her hands was a small, round tray on which stood a not yet started, but already uncorked, bottle of champagne and two glasses, no more nor less. The bottle was evidently meant for only two guests.

The elderly woman went straight up to the general.

“Don’t find fault, Your Excellency,” she said, bowing, “but since you haven’t disdained us, doing us the honor of coming to my son’s wedding, be so kind as to congratulate the young folk with wine. Don’t disdain it, do us the honor.”

Ivan Ilyich seized upon her as his salvation. She was not such an old woman, about forty-five or -six, no more. But she had such a kind, red-cheeked, such an open, round Russian face, she smiled so good-naturedly, bowed so simply, that Ivan Ilyich was almost reassured and began to have hopes.

“So yo-o-ou are the ma-ter-nal pa-a-arent of your so-o-on?” he said, rising from the sofa.

“The maternal parent, Your Excellency,” Pseldonymov maundered, stretching his long neck and again sticking his nose out.

“Ah! Very glad, ve-ry glad to make your acquaintance.”

“Don’t scorn us, then, Your Excellency.”

“Even with the greatest pleasure.”

The tray was set down, Pseldonymov leaped over and poured the wine. Ivan Ilyich, still standing, took the glass.

“I am especially, especially glad of this occasion, since I can…” he began, “since I can… herewith pay my… In a word, as a superior… I wish you, madam” (he turned to the bride), “and you, my friend Porfiry—I wish you full, prosperous, and enduring happiness.”

And, even with emotion, he drank off the glass, his seventh that evening. Pseldonymov looked serious and even sullen. The general was beginning to hate him painfully.

“And this hulk” (he glanced at the officer) “is stuck here, too. Why doesn’t he shout ‘hurrah!’ Then it would take off, take right off…”

“And you, too, Akim Petrovich, drink and congratulate them,” added the old woman, addressing the chief clerk. “You’re a superior, he’s your subordinate. Look after my boy, I ask you as a mother. And don’t forget us in the future, dear Akim Petrovich, kind man that you are.”

“How nice these Russian old women are!” thought Ivan Ilyich. “She’s revived them all. I’ve always liked our folkways…”

At that moment another tray was brought to the table. It was carried by a wench in a rustling, not yet laundered calico dress with a crinoline. She could barely get her arms around the tray, it was so big. On it was a numberless multitude of little plates with apples, bonbons, gumdrops, candied fruit, walnuts, and so on and so forth. Till then the tray had been in the drawing room, for the pleasure of all the guests, mainly the ladies. But now it was brought over to the general alone.

“Don’t scorn our victuals, Your Excellency. What we’ve got, we’re glad to give,” the old woman repeated, bowing.

“Heavens…” said Ivan Ilyich, and even with pleasure he took and crushed between his fingers a single walnut. He was resolved to be popular to the end.

Meanwhile the bride suddenly began to giggle.

“What, ma’am?” Ivan Ilyich asked with a smile, glad of some signs of life.

“It’s Ivan Kostenkinych there, making me laugh, sir,” she replied, looking down.

The general actually made out a blond youth, not bad-looking at all, hiding on the other side of the sofa in a chair, who kept whispering something to Madame Pseldonymov. The youth got up. He was apparently very timid and very young.

“I was telling her about the ‘dream book,’ ¹⁸Your Excellency,” he murmured, as if making an excuse.

“About what dream book?” Ivan Ilyich asked indulgently.

“The new one, sir, the literary one. I was telling her, sir, that if you see Mr. Panaev ¹⁹in your dreams, it means you’ll spill coffee on your shirtfront, sir.”

“What innocence,” thought Ivan Ilyich, even angrily. The youth, though he became very red as he was saying it, was still incredibly glad that he had told about Mr. Panaev.

“Well, yes, yes, I’ve heard…” responded His Excellency.

“No, there’s an even better one,” another voice said, right beside Ivan Ilyich, “there’s a new lexicon being published, they say Mr. Kraevsky himself will write articles, Alferaki… and esposé literature…” ²⁰

This was said by a young man, not a bashful one this time, but a rather casual one. He was wearing gloves, a white waistcoat, and held his hat in his hand. He did not dance, had a supercilious look, because he was a collaborator on the satirical magazine The Firebrand, set the tone, and showed up at this wedding by chance, invited as a guest of honor by Pseldonymov, with whom he was on intimate terms and with whom, still last year, he had shared a life of poverty “in corners” ²¹rented from some German woman. He did drink vodka, however, and for that purpose had already absented himself more than once to a cozy little back room, the way to which was known to all. The general took a terrible dislike to him.

“And that’s funny, sir, because,” the blond youth suddenly interrupted joyfully, the one who had told about the shirtfront and to whom the collaborator in the white waistcoat had given a hateful look for it, “funny because, Your Excellency, the writer assumes that Mr. Kraevsky doesn’t know how to spell and thinks that ‘exposé literature’ should be written ‘esposé literature’…”

But the poor youth barely finished. He could see by his eyes that the general had known that long ago, because the general also became as if abashed himself, obviously because he did know it. The young man was incredibly ashamed. He managed hurriedly to efface himself somewhere, and for the rest of the time afterward was very sad. Instead, the casual collaborator on The Firebrandcame closer still and, it seemed, was intending to sit down somewhere nearby. To Ivan Ilyich such casualness seemed a bit ticklish.

“Yes! tell me, please, Porfiry,” he began, in order to talk about something, “why—I’ve been wanting to ask you personally about it—why are you called Pseldonymov, and not Pseudonymov? Surely you’re Pseudonymov?”

“I’m unable to give a precise report, Your Excellency,” Pseldonymov replied.

“It must have been mixed up already on his father’s papers, sir, when he entered the service, sir, so now he’s stayed Pseldonymov,” Akim Petrovich responded. “It happens, sir.”

“Ab-so-lutely,” the general picked up heatedly, “ab-so-lutely, because, consider for yourself: Pseudonymov—that comes from the literary word ‘pseudonym.’ Well, and Pseldonymov doesn’t mean anything.”

“Out of stupidity, sir,” Akim Petrovich added.

“That is, what, in fact, is out of stupidity?”

“The Russian people, sir; out of stupidity they sometimes change letters, sir, and pronounce things sometimes in their own way, sir. For instance, they say ninvalid, when they ought to say invalid, sir.”

“Well, yes… ninvalid, heh, heh, heh…”

“They also say liberry, Your Excellency,” the tall officer blurted out, having long had an itch to distinguish himself somehow.

“That is, liberry meaning what?”

“Liberry instead of library, Your Excellency.”

“Ah, yes, liberry… instead of library… Well, yes, yes… heh, heh, heh!…” Ivan Ilyich was obliged to chuckle for the officer as well.

The officer straightened his tie.

“And they also say perfick,” the collaborator on The Firebrandattempted to mix in. But His Excellency tried this time not to hear. He was not going to chuckle for everyone.

“Perfickinstead of perfect,”the “collaborator” went on pestering with visible irritation.

Ivan Ilyich gave him a stern look.

“Stop pestering him!” Pseldonymov whispered to the collaborator.

“What do you mean, I’m just talking. What, can’t I talk?” the other objected in a whisper, but nevertheless fell silent and with concealed rage left the room.

He made his way straight to the alluring little back room where, ever since the evening began, a small table had been placed for the dancing gentlemen, covered with a Yaroslavl tablecloth, on which stood vodka of two kinds, pickled herring, cheap caviar, and a bottle of the strongest sherry from the national cellar. ²²With spite in his heart, he was just pouring himself some vodka, when suddenly in ran the medical student with the tousled hair, the foremost dancer and can-canner at Pseldonymov’s ball. With hasty greed he rushed for the decanter.

“They’re starting now!” he said, hurriedly serving himself. “Come and watch: I’ll do a solo upside down, and after supper I’ll risk the fish. ²³It’s even suitable for a wedding. A friendly hint, so to speak, to Pseldonymov… She’s nice, this Kleopatra Semyonovna, you can risk whatever you like with her.”

“He’s a retrograde,” the collaborator said gloomily, drinking his glass.

“Who’s a retrograde?”

“That one, that personage, sitting in front of the gumdrops. A retrograde, I tell you!”

“Ah, you!” the student muttered, and dashed out of the room, hearing the ritornello of the quadrille.

The collaborator, left alone, poured himself some more for the sake of greater bravado and independence, drank up, ate a bite, and never before had the actual state councillor Ivan Ilyich acquired for himself a fiercer enemy or a more implacable avenger than this slighted-by-him collaborator on The Firebrand, especially after two glasses of vodka. Alas! Ivan Ilyich suspected nothing of the sort. Nor did he yet suspect another capital circumstance, which had an influence on all further mutual relations of the guests with His Excellency. The thing was that, though for his part he had given a decent and even detailed explanation of his presence at his subordinate’s wedding, this explanation had not in fact satisfied anyone, and the guests went on being embarrassed. But suddenly everything changed, as if by magic; they all calmed down and were ready to make merry, guffaw, squeal, and dance just as if the unexpected guest were not in the room at all. The reason for it was the rumor, the whisper, the news which suddenly spread, no one knew how, that the guest seemed to be… under the influence. And though the matter had, at first glance, the look of the most terrible slander, it gradually began to justify itself, as it were, so that everything suddenly became clear. What’s more, they suddenly became extraordinarily free. And it was at this same moment that the quadrille began, the last one before supper, to which the medical student had hastened so.