Short Stories by Fyodor Dostoyevsky - 5/15. A Unpleasant Predicament, Part 3/4

Chapter 5 of Short Stories by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Part 3. An Unpleasant Predicament. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Fanny. Short Stories by Fyodor Dostoevsky. Chapter 5. Part 3. The quadrille began. Will you allow me, Your Excellency? asked Akim Petrovich, holding the bottle respectfully in his hands and preparing to pour from it into His Excellency's glass. I... I really don't know whether... But Akim Petrovich, with reverent and radiant face, was already filling the glass. After filling the glass, he proceeded, rising and wriggling, as it were stealthily, as it were furtively, to pour himself out some, with this difference that he did not fill his own glass to within a finger-length of the top, and this seemed somehow more respectful. He was like a woman in travail, as he said beside his chief. What could he talk about, indeed? Yet, to entertain His Excellency was an absolute duty, since he had the honor of keeping him company. The champagne served as a resource, and His Excellency, too, was pleased that he had filled his glass, not for the sake of the champagne, for it was warm and perfectly abominable, but just morally pleased. The old chap would like to have a drink himself, thought Ivan Ilyich, but he doesn't venture till I do. I mustn't prevent him, and indeed it would be absurd for the bottle to stand between as untouched. He took a sip. Anyway, it seemed better than sitting doing nothing. I'm here, he said with pauses and emphasis. I am here, you know, so to speak, accidentally, and of course it may be that some people would consider it unseemly for me to be at such a gathering. Akim Petrovich said nothing, but listened with timid curiosity. But I hope you will understand with what object I have come. I haven't really come simply to drink wine, hehe. Akim Petrovich tried to chuckle, following the example of His Excellency, but again he could not get it out, and again he made absolutely no consolatory answer. I am here in order, so to speak, to encourage, to show, so to speak, a moral aim. Ivan Ilyich continued, feeling vexed at Akim Petrovich's stupidity, but he suddenly subsided into silence himself. He saw that poor Akim Petrovich had dropped his eyes as though he were in fault. The general, in some confusion, made haste to take another sip from his glass, and Akim Petrovich clutched at the bottle as though it were his only hope of salvation, and filled the glass again. You haven't many resources, thought Ivan Ilyich, looking sternly at poor Akim Petrovich. The latter, feeling that stern, general-like eye upon him, made up his mind to remain silent for good, and not to raise his eyes. So they sat beside each other for a couple of minutes, two sickly minutes for Akim Petrovich. A couple of words about Akim Petrovich. He was a man of the old school, ischemic as a hen, reared from infancy to obsequious servility, and at the same time a good-natured and even honorable man. He was a Petersburg Russian. That is, his father and his father's father were born, grew up and served in Petersburg, and had never once left Petersburg. That is quite a special type of Russian. They have hardly any idea of Russia, though that does not trouble them at all. Their whole interest is confined to Petersburg, and chiefly the place in which they served. All their thoughts are concentrated on preference for farthing points, on the shop, and a month's salary. They don't know a single Russian custom, a single Russian song, except Lachinashka, and that only because it is played on the barrel organs. However, there are two fundamental and invariable signs by which you can at once distinguish a Petersburg Russian from a real Russian. The first sign is the fact that Petersburg Russians, all without exception, speak of the newspaper as the academic news, and never call it the Petersburg News. The second and typically trustworthy sign is that Petersburg Russians never make use of the word breakfast, but always call it fryshtyk, with a special emphasis on the first syllable. By these radical and distinguishing signs, you can tell them apart. In short, this is a humble type which has been formed during the last 35 years. Akim Petrovich, however, was by no means a fool. If the general had asked him a question about anything in his own province, he would have answered and kept up a conversation. As it was, it was unseemly for a subordinate even to answer such questions as these, though Akim Petrovich was dying from curiosity to know something more detailed about His Excellency's real intentions. And meanwhile, Ivan Ilyich sank more and more into meditation and a sort of whirl of ideas. In his absorption, he sipped his glass every half minute. Akim Petrovich at once zealously filled it up. Both were silent. Ivan Ilyich began looking at the dances and immediately something attracted his attention. One circumstance even surprised him. The dances were certainly lively. Here people danced in the simplicity of their hearts to amuse themselves and even to romp wildly. Among the dancers, few were really skillful, but the unskilled stamped so vigorously that they might have been taken for agile ones. The officer was among the foremost. He particularly liked the figures in which he was left alone to perform a solo. Then he performed the most marvelous capers. For instance, standing upright as a post, he would suddenly bend over to one side so that one expected him to fall over. But with the next step, he would suddenly bend over in the opposite direction, at the same acute angle to the floor. He kept the most serious face and danced in the full conviction that everyone was watching him. Another gentleman, who had had rather more than he could carry before the quadrille, dropped a slip beside his partner so that his partner had to dance alone. The young registration clerk, who had danced with the lady in the blue scarf through all the figures and through all the five quadrilles which they had danced that evening, played the same prank the whole time. That is, he dropped a little behind his partner, seized the end of her scarf, and as they crossed over, succeeded in imprinting some 20 kisses on the scarf. His partner sailed along in front of him as though she noticed nothing. The medical student really did dance on his head In short, the absence of constraint was very marked. Ivan Ilyich, whom the wine was beginning to affect, began by smiling, but by degrees a bitter doubt began to steal into his heart. Of course, he liked free and easy manners and unconventionality. He desired he had even inwardly prayed for free and easy manners when they had all held back, but now that unconventionality had gone beyond all limits. One lady, for instance, the one in the shabby dark blue velvet dress, bowed forth hand in the sixth figure, pinned her dress so as to turn it into something like trousers. This was the Cleopatra Semyonovna, with whom one could venture to do anything as her partner, the medical student, had expressed it. The medical student defied description. How was it? They had held back, and now they were so quickly emancipated. One might think it nothing, but this transformation was somehow strange. It indicated something. It was as though they had forgotten Ivan Ilyich's existence. Of course, he was the first to laugh and even ventured to applaud. Akim Petrovich chuckled respectfully in unison, though indeed with evident pleasure, and no suspicion that His Excellency was beginning to nourish in his heart a new knowing anxiety. You dance capitally, young man, Ivan Ilyich was obliged to say to the medical student as he walked past him. The student turned sharply towards him, made a grimace, and bringing his face close into unseemly proximity to the face of His Excellency, crowed like a cock at the top of his voice. This was too much. Ivan Ilyich got up from the table. In spite of that, a roar of inexpressible laughter followed, for the crowd was an extraordinarily good imitation, and the whole performance was utterly unexpected. Ivan Ilyich was still standing in bewilderment when suddenly Pseldonimov himself made his appearance and with a bow began begging him to come to supper. His mother followed him. Your Excellency, she said bowing, do us the honor. Do not disdain our humble fare. I really don't know Ivan Ilyich was beginning. I did not come with that idea. I meant to be going. He was in fact holding his hat in his hands. What is more, he had at that very moment taken an inward vow at all costs to depart at once, and on no account whatever to consent to remain, and he remained. A minute later he led the procession to the table. Pseldonimov and his mother walked in front, clearing the way for him. They made him sit down in the seat of honor, and again a bottle of champagne opened but not begun was set beside his plate. By way of hors d'oeuvre, there were salt herrings and vodka. He put out his hand, poured out a large glass of vodka, and drank it off. He had never drunk vodka before. He felt as though he were rolling down a hill, were flying, flying, flying, that he must stop himself, catch at something, but there was no possibility of it. His position was certainly becoming more and more eccentric. What is more, it seemed as though fate were mocking at him. God knows what had happened to him in the course of an hour or so. When he went in, he had, so to say, opened his arms to embrace all humanity, all his subordinates. And here, not more than an hour had passed, and in all his aching heart, he felt and knew that he hated Pseldonimov and was cursing him, his wife, and his wedding. What was more, he saw from his face, from his eyes alone, that Pseldonimov himself hated him, that he was looking at him with eyes that almost said, if only you would take yourself off, curse you, foisting yourself on us. All this he had read for some time in his eyes. Of course, as he sat down to table, Ivan Ilyich would sooner have had his hand cut off than have owned, not only aloud, but even to himself, that this was really so. The moment had not fully arrived yet. There was still a moral vacillation. But his heart, his heart, it ached. It was clamoring for freedom, for air, for rest. Ivan Ilyich was really too good-natured. He knew, of course, that he ought long before to have gone away, not merely to have gone away, but to have made his escape. That all this was not the same, but had turned out utterly different from what he had dreamed of on the pavement. Why did I come? Did I come here to eat and drink? He asked himself as he tasted the salt herring. He even had attacks of skepticism. There was at times a faint stare of irony in regard to his own fine action at the bottom of his heart. He actually wondered at times why he had come in. But how could he go away? To go away like this without having finished the business properly was impossible. What would people say? They would say that he was frequenting law company. Indeed, it really would amount to that if he did not end it properly. What would Stepan Nikiforovich, Semyon Ivanovich say, for of course it would be all over the place by tomorrow? No, he must take his departure in such a way that all should understand why he had come. He must make clear his moral aim. And meantime the dramatic moment would not present itself. They don't even respect me, he went on thinking. What are they laughing at? They are as free and easy as though they had no feeling. But I have long suspected that all the younger generation are without feeling. I must remain at all costs. They have just been dancing but now a table they will all be gathered together. I will talk about questions, about reforms, about the greatness of Russia. I can still win their enthusiasm. Yes, perhaps nothing is yet lost. Perhaps it is always like this in reality. What should I begin upon with them to attract them? What play can I hint upon? I am lost, simply lost. And what is it they want? What is it they require? I see they are laughing together there. Can it be it's me? Merciful heavens! But what is it I want? Why is it I am here? Why don't I go away? Why do I go on persisting? He thought this and a sort of shame, a deep unbearable shame, ran his heart more and more intensely. But everything went on in the same way, one thing after another. Just two minutes after he had sat down to the table, one terrible thought overwhelmed him completely. He suddenly felt that he was horribly drunk, that is, not as he was before, but hopelessly drunk. The cause of this was the glass of vodka which he had drunk after the champagne and which had immediately produced an effect. He was conscious, he felt in every fiber of his being that he was growing hopelessly feeble. Of course, his assurance was greatly increased, but consciousness had not deserted him, and it kept crying out. It is bad, very bad, and in fact utterly unseemly. Of course, his unstable drunken reflections could not rest long on one subject. There began to be apparent, and unmistakably so, even to himself two opposite sides. On one side there was swaggering assurance, a desire to conquer, a disdain of obstacles and a desperate confidence that he would attain his object. The other side showed itself in the aching of his heart and a sort of knowing in his soul. What would they say? How would it all end? What would happen tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow? He had felt vaguely before that he had enemies in the company. No doubt that was because I was drunk, he thought with agonizing doubt. What was his horror when he actually, by unmistakable signs, convinced himself now that he really had enemies at the table and that it was impossible to doubt of it? And why, why, he wondered. At the table there were all the thirty guests, of whom several were quite tipsy. Others were behaving with a careless and sinister independence, shouting and talking at the top of their voices, bawling out the toss before the time, and petting the ladies with pellets of bread. One unprepossessing person in a greasy coat had fallen off his chair as soon as he sat down and remained so till the end of supper. Another one made desperate efforts to stand on the table to propose a toast and only the officer, who seized him by the tails of his coat, moderated his premature ardor. The supper was a pell-mell affair, although they had hired a cook who had been in the service of a general. There was the galantine, there was tongue and potatoes, there were rissoles with green peas, there was finally a goose and, last of all, blancmange. Among the drinks were beer, vodka and sherry. The only bottle of champagne was standing beside a general, which obliged him to pour it out for himself and also for Akim Petrovich, who did not venture at supper to officiate on his own initiative. The other guests had to drink the toast in Caucasian wine or anything else they could get. The table was made up of several tables put together, among them even a card table. It was covered with many tablecloths, amongst them one colored yaroslav cloth. The gentlemen sat alternately with the ladies. Seldonimov's mother would not sit down to the table. She bustled about and supervised. But another sinister female figure, who had not shown herself till then, appeared on the scene wearing a reddish silk dress with a very high cap on her head and a bandage round her face for toothache. It appeared that this was the bride's mother, who had at last consented to emerge from a back room for supper. She had refused to appear till then, owing to her implacable hostility to Seldonimov's mother, but to that we will refer later. This lady looked spitefully, even sarcastically, at the general and evidently did not wish to be presented to him. To Ivan Ilyich, this figure appeared suspicious in the extreme. But apart from her, several other persons were suspicious and inspired involuntary apprehension and uneasiness. It even seemed that they were in some sort of plot together against Ivan Ilyich. At any rate, it seemed so to him, and throughout the whole supper he became more and more convinced of it. A gentleman with a beard, some sort of free artist, was particularly sinister. He even looked at Ivan Ilyich several times and then, turning to his neighbor, whispered something. Another person present was unmistakably drunk, but yet, from certain signs, was to be regarded with suspicion. The medical student, too, gave rise to unpleasant expectations. Even the officer himself was not quite to be depended on. But the young man on the comic paper was blazing with hatred. He lulled in his chair, he looked so haughty and conceited, he snored so aggressively. And though the rest of the guests took absolutely no notice of the young journalist, who had contributed only four wretched poems to the firebrand, and had consequently become a liberal and evidently indeed disliked him, yet when a pellet of bread aimed in his direction fell near Ivan Ilyich, he was ready to stake his head that it had been thrown by no other than the young man in question. All this, of course, had a pitiable effect on him. Another observation was particularly unpleasant. Ivan Ilyich became aware that he was beginning to articulate indistinctly and with difficulty, that he was longing to say a great deal, but that his tongue refused to obey him. And then he suddenly seemed to forget himself, and worst of all, he would suddenly burst into a loud guffaw of laughter, apropos of nothing. This inclination quickly passed off after a glass of champagne, which Ivan Ilyich had not meant to drink, though he had poured it out and suddenly drank it quite by accident. After that glass, he felt at once almost inclined to cry. He felt that he was sinking into a most peculiar state of sentimentality. He began to be again filled with love. He loved everyone, even Pseldonimov, even the young man on the comic paper. He suddenly longed to embrace all of them, to forget everything, and to be reconciled. What is more, to tell them everything openly, all, all! That is, to tell them what a good, nice man he was, with what wonderful talents, what services he would do for his country, how good he was at entertaining the fair sex, and above all, how progressive he was, how humanely ready he was to be indulgent to all, to the very lowest. And finally, in conclusion, to tell them frankly all the motives that had impelled him to turn up at Pseldonimov's uninvited, to drink two bottles of champagne, and to make him happy with his presence. The truth, the holy truth, and candor before all things. I will capture them by candor. They will believe me. I see it clearly. They actually look at me with hostility, but when I tell them all, I shall conquer them completely. They will fill their glasses and drink my health with shout. The officer will break his glass on his fair. Perhaps they will even shout, Hurrah! Even if they want to toss me after the hussar fashion, I will not oppose them. And indeed, it would be very jolly. I will kiss the bride on her forehead. She is charming. Akim Petrovich is a very nice man, too. Pseldonimov will improve, of course, later on. He will acquire, so to speak, a society Polish. And although, of course, the younger generation has not that delicacy of feeling, yet I will talk to them about the contemporary significance of Russia among the European states. I will refer to the peasant question, too. Yes. And they will all like me. And I shall live with glory. These dreams were, of course, extremely agreeable. But what was unpleasant was that in the midst of these rosy anticipations, Ivan Ilyich suddenly discovered in himself another unexpected propensity that was to spit. Anyway, saliva began running from his mouth apart from any will of his own. He observed this on Akim Petrovich, whose cheek he splattered upon and who said not daring to wipe it off from respectfulness. Ivan Ilyich took his dinner napkin and wiped it himself. But this immediately struck him himself as so incongruous, so opposed to all common sense that he sank into silence and began wondering. Though Akim Petrovich emptied his glass, yet he said as though he were scolded. Ivan Ilyich reflected now that he had for almost a quarter of an hour been talking to him about some most interesting subjects, but that Akim Petrovich had not only seemed embarrassed that he listened, but positively frightened. Pseldonimo, who was sitting one chair away from him, also craned his neck towards him and, bending his head sideways, listened to him with the most unpleasant air. He actually seemed to be keeping a watch on him. Turning his eyes upon the rest of the company, he saw that many were looking straight at him and laughing. But what was strangest of all was that he was not in the least embarrassed by it. On the contrary, he sipped his glass again and suddenly began speaking so that all could hear. I was saying just now, he began as loudly as possible, I was saying just now, ladies and gentlemen, to Akim Petrovich, that Russia, yes, Russia, in short, you understand that I mean to say Russia is living, it is my profound conviction through a period of hu-humanity. hu-humanity was heard at the other end of the table. hu-hu tu-tu Ivan Ilyich stopped. Pseldonimo got up from his chair and began trying to see who had shouted. Akim Petrovich stealthily shook his head as though admonishing the guests. Ivan Ilyich saw this distinctly but in his confusion said nothing. Humanity, he continued obstinately. And this evening, and only this evening, I said to Stepan Nikiforovich, yes, that the regeneration so to speak of things, Your Excellency, was heard a loud exclamation at the other end of the table. What is your pleasure, answered Ivan Ilyich, pulled up short and trying to distinguish who had called to him. Nothing at all, Your Excellency. I was carried away. Continue, continue, the voice was heard again. Ivan Ilyich felt upset. The regeneration so to speak of those same things, Your Excellency, the voice shouted again. What do you want? How do you do? This time Ivan Ilyich could not restrain himself. He broke off his speech and turned to the assailant who had disturbed the general harmony. He was a very young lad, still at school, who had taken more than a drop too much and was an object of great suspicion to the general. He had been shouting for a long time past and had even broken a glass and two plates, maintaining that this was the proper thing to do at a wedding. At the moment when Ivan Ilyich turned towards him, the officer was beginning to pitch into the noisy youngster. What are you about? Why are you yelling? We shall turn you out. That's what we shall do. I don't mean you, Your Excellency. I don't mean you. You continue, cried the hilarious schoolboy, lolling back in his chair. Continue, I am listening and am very, very, very much pleased with you. Praiseworthy! The wretched boy is drunk, said Pseudonymov in a whisper. I see that he is drunk, but... I was just telling a very amusing anecdote, Your Excellency, began the officer, about a lieutenant in our company who was talking just like that to his superior officers. So this young man is imitating him now. To every word of his superior officers he said praiseworthy, praiseworthy. He was turned out of the army ten years ago on account of it. What lieutenant was that? In our company, Your Excellency, he went out of his mind over the word praiseworthy. At first, they tried gentle methods, then they put him under arrest. His commanding officer admonished him in the most fatherly way and he answered praiseworthy, praiseworthy. And strange to say, the officer was a fine-looking man over six feet. They meant to court-martial him, but then they perceived that he was mad. So, a schoolboy, a schoolboy's prank need not be taken seriously. For my part, I am ready to overlook it. They held a medical inquiry, Your Excellency. Upon my word, but he was alive, wasn't he? What? Did they dissect him? A loud and almost universal roar of laughter resounded among the guests who until then behaved with decorum. Ivan Ilyich was furious. Ladies and gentlemen, he shouted. At first, a scarcely stammering. I am fully capable of apprehending that a man is not dissected alive. I imagine that in his derangement he had ceased to be alive. That is, that he had died. That is, I mean to say that you don't like me and yet I like you all. Yes, I like poor, poor Fury. I am lowering myself by speaking like this. At that moment, Ivan Ilyich spluttered so that a great dab of saliva flew onto the tablecloth in a most conspicuous place. Pseldonimov flew to wipe it off with a table napkin. This last disaster crushed him completely. My friends, this is too much, he cried in despair. The man is drunk, Your Excellency. Pseldonimov prompted him again. Poor Fury, I see that you all... Yes, I say that I hope... Yes, I call upon you all to tell me in what way have I lowered myself. Ivan Ilyich was almost crying. Your Excellency, good heavens! Poor Fury, I appeal to you. Tell me, when I came... Yes, yes, to your wedding, I had an object. I was aiming at moral elevation. I wanted it to be felt. I appeal to all. Am I greatly lowered in your eyes or not? A death-like silence. That was just it, a death-like silence, and to such a downright question. They might at least shout at this minute, flashed through His Excellency's head. But the guests only looked at one another. Akin Petrovich sat more dead than alive, while Pseldonimov, numb with terror, was repeating to himself the awful question which had occurred to him more than once already. What shall I have to pay for all this tomorrow? At this point, the young men on the comic paper, who was very drunk but who had hitherto sat in morose silence, addressed Ivan Ilyich directly, and with flashing eyes began answering in the name of the whole company. Yes, he said in a loud voice. Yes, you have lowered yourself. Yes, you are a reactionary. Reactionary. Young man, you are forgetting yourself. To whom are you speaking? So to express it, Ivan Ilyich cried furiously, jumping up from his seat again. To you, and secondly, I am not a young man. You've come to give yourself airs and try to win popularity. Pseldonimov, what does this mean? cried Ivan Ilyich. But Pseldonimov was reduced to such horror that he stood still like a post and was utterly at a loss what to do. The guests too sat mute in their seats, all but the artist and the schoolboy who applauded and shouted. Bravo! Bravo! The young men on the comic paper went on shouting with unrestrained violence. Yet you came to show off your humanity. You've hindered the enjoyment of everyone. You've been drinking champagne without thinking that it is beyond the means of a clerk at ten roubles a month. And I suspect that you are one of those high officials who are a little too fond of the young wives of their clerks. What is more, I am convinced that you support state monopolies. Yes, yes, yes. Pseldonimov! Pseldonimov! shouted Ivan Ilyich, holding out his hands to him. He felt that every word uttered by the comic young man was a fresh dagger at his heart. Directly, Your Excellency, please do not disturb yourself. Pseldonimov cried energetically, rushing up to the comic young man, seizing him by the collar and dragging him away from the table. Such physical strength could indeed not have been expected from the weakly looking Pseldonimov. But the comic young man was very drunk, while Pseldonimov was perfectly sober. Then he gave him two or three cups in the back and thrust him out of the door. You are all scoundrels, wrote the young man of the comic paper. I will caricature you all tomorrow in the firebrand. They all leapt up from their seats. Your Excellency, Your Excellency, cried Pseldonimov, his mother and several others, crowding around the general. Your Excellency, do not be disturbed. No, no, cried the general. I am annihilated. I came, I meant to bless you, so to speak, and this is how I am paid for everything, everything. He sank onto a chair as though unconscious, laid both his arms on the table and bowed his head over them, straight into a plate of blanc-mange. There is no need to describe the general horror. A minute later he got up, evidently meaning to go out, gave a lurch, stumbled against the leg of a chair, fell full length on the floor and snored. This is what is apt to happen to men who don't drink when they accidentally take a glass too much. They preserve their consciousness to the last point, to the last minute, and then fall to the ground as though struck down. Ivan Ilyich lay on the floor absolutely unconscious. Pseldonimov clutched at his hair and sat as though petrified in that position. The guests made haste to depart, commenting each in his own way on the incident. It was about three o'clock in the morning. End of Chapter 5, Part 3 Recording by Fanny Thessaloniki, Greece