The Death of Ivan Ilych - Leo Nikoleyevich Tolstoy (ebook offline reader txt) 📗

wishing and

forcing him to participate in that lie. Those lies — lies enacted over him

on the eve of his death and destined to degrade this awful, solemn act to

the level of their visitings, their curtains, their sturgeon for dinner —

were a terrible agony for Ivan Ilych. And strangely enough, many times when

they were going through their antics over him he had been within a

hairbreadth of calling out to them: “Stop lying! You know and I know that I

am dying. Then at least stop lying about it!” But he had never had the

spirit to do it. The awful, terrible act of his dying was, he could see,

reduced by those about him to the level of a casual, unpleasant, and almost

indecorous incident (as if someone entered a drawing room defusing an

unpleasant odour) and this was done by that very decorum which he had served

all his life long. He saw that no one felt for him, because no one even

wished to grasp his position. Only Gerasim recognized it and pitied him. And

so Ivan Ilych felt at ease only with him. He felt comforted when Gerasim

supported his legs (sometimes all night long) and refused to go to bed,

saying: “Don’t you worry, Ivan Ilych. I’ll get sleep enough later on,” or

when he suddenly became familiar and exclaimed: “If you weren’t sick it

would be another matter, but as it is, why should I grudge a little

trouble?” Gerasim alone did not lie; everything showed that he alone

understood the facts of the case and did not consider it necessary to

disguise them, but simply felt sorry for his emaciated and enfeebled master.

Once when Ivan Ilych was sending him away he even said straight out: “We

shall all of us die, so why should I grudge a little trouble?” — expressing

the fact that he did not think his work burdensome, because he was doing it

for a dying man and hoped someone would do the same for him when his time

came.

 

Apart from this lying, or because of it, what most tormented Ivan Ilych was

that no one pitied him as he wished to be pitied. At certain moments after

prolonged suffering he wished most of all (though he would have been ashamed

to confess it) for someone to pity him as a sick child is pitied. He longed

to be petted and comforted. He knew he was an important functionary, that he

had a beard turning grey, and that therefore what he longed for was

impossible, but still he longed for it. And in Gerasim’s attitude towards

him there was something akin to what he wished for, and so that attitude

comforted him. Ivan Ilych wanted to weep, wanted to be petted and cried

over, and then his colleague Shebek would come, and instead of weeping and

being petted, Ivan Ilych would assume a serious, severe, and profound air,

and by force of habit would express his opinion on a decision of the Court

of Cassation and would stubbornly insist on that view. This falsity around

him and within him did more than anything else to poison his last days.

VIII

It was morning. He knew it was morning because Gerasim had gone, and Peter

the footman had come and put out the candles, drawn back one of the

curtains, and begun quietly to tidy up. Whether it was morning or evening,

Friday or Sunday, made no difference, it was all just the same: the gnawing,

unmitigated, agonizing pain, never ceasing for an instant, the consciousness

of life inexorably waning but not yet extinguished, the approach of that

ever dreaded and hateful Death which was the only reality, and always the

same falsity. What were days, weeks, hours, in such a case?

 

“Will you have some tea, sir?”

 

“He wants things to be regular, and wishes the gentlefolk to drink tea in

the morning,” thought Ivan Ilych, and only said “No.”

 

“Wouldn’t you like to move onto the sofa, sir?”

 

“He wants to tidy up the room, and I’m in the way. I am uncleanliness and

disorder,” he thought, and said only:

 

“No, leave me alone.”

 

The man went on bustling about. Ivan Ilych stretched out his hand. Peter

came up, ready to help.

 

“What is it, sir?”

 

“My watch.”

 

Peter took the watch which was close at hand and gave it to his master.

 

“Half-past eight. Are they up?”

 

“No sir, except Vladimir Ivanovich” (the son) “who has gone to school.

Praskovya Fedorovna ordered me to wake her if you asked for her. Shall I do

so?”

 

“No, there’s no need to.” “Perhaps I’d better have some tea,” he thought,

and added aloud: “Yes, bring me some tea.”

 

Peter went to the door, but Ivan Ilych dreaded being left alone. “How can I

keep him here? Oh yes, my medicine.” “Peter, give me my medicine.” “Why not?

Perhaps it may still do some good.” He took a spoonful and swallowed it.

“No, it won’t help. It’s all tomfoolery, all deception,” he decided as soon

as he became aware of the familiar, sickly, hopeless taste. “No, I can’t

believe in it any longer. But the pain, why this pain? If it would only

cease just for a moment!” And he moaned. Peter turned towards him. “It’s all

right. Go and fetch me some tea.”

 

Peter went out. Left alone Ivan Ilych groaned not so much with pain,

terrible though that was, as from mental anguish. Always and for ever the

same, always these endless days and nights. If only it would come quicker!

If only what would come quicker? Death, darkness?… No, no! anything

rather than death!

 

When Peter returned with the tea on a tray, Ivan Ilych stared at him for a

time in perplexity, not realizing who and what he was. Peter was

disconcerted by that look and his embarrassment brought Ivan Ilych to

himself.

 

“Oh, tea! All right, put it down. Only help me to wash and put on a clean

shirt.”

 

And Ivan Ilych began to wash. With pauses for rest, he washed his hands and

then his face, cleaned his teeth, brushed his hair, looked in the glass. He

was terrified by what he saw, especially by the limp way in which his hair

clung to his pallid forehead.

 

While his shirt was being changed he knew that he would be still more

frightened at the sight of his body, so he avoided looking at it. Finally he

was ready. He drew on a dressing-gown, wrapped himself in a plaid, and sat

down in the armchair to take his tea. For a moment he felt refreshed, but as

soon as he began to drink the tea he was again aware of the same taste, and

the pain also returned. He finished it with an effort, and then lay down

stretching out his legs, and dismissed Peter.

 

Always the same. Now a spark of hope flashes up, then a sea of despair

rages, and always pain; always pain, always despair, and always the same.

When alone he had a dreadful and distressing desire to call someone, but he

knew beforehand that with others present it would be still worse. “Another

dose of morphine—to lose consciousness. I will tell him, the doctor, that he

must think of something else. It’s impossible, impossible, to go on like

this.”

 

An hour and another pass like that. But now there is a ring at the door

bell. Perhaps it’s the doctor? It is. He comes in fresh, hearty, plump, and

cheerful, with that look on his face that seems to say: “There now, you’re

in a panic about something, but we’ll arrange it all for you directly!” The

doctor knows this expression is out of place here, but he has put it on once

for all and can’t take it off — like a man who has put on a frock-coat in

the morning to pay a round of calls.

 

The doctor rubs his hands vigorously and reassuringly.

 

“Brr! How cold it is! There’s such a sharp frost; just let me warm

myself!” he says, as if it were only a matter of waiting till he was warm,

and then he would put everything right.

 

“Well now, how are you?”

 

Ivan Ilych feels that the doctor would like to say: “Well, how are our

affairs?” but that even he feels that this would not do, and says instead:

“What sort of a night have you had?”

 

Ivan Ilych looks at him as much as to say: “Are you really never ashamed of

lying?” But the doctor does not wish to understand this question, and Ivan

Ilych says: “Just as terrible as ever. The pain never leaves me and never

subsides. If only something… “

 

“Yes, you sick people are always like that…. There, now I think I am

warm enough. Even Praskovya Fedorovna, who is so particular, could find no

fault with my temperature. Well, now I can say good-morning,” and the doctor

presses his patient’s hand.

 

Then dropping his former playfulness, he begins with a most serious face to

examine the patient, feeling his pulse and taking his temperature, and then

begins the sounding and auscultation.

 

Ivan Ilych knows quite well and definitely that all this is nonsense and

pure deception, but when the doctor, getting down on his knee, leans over

him, putting his ear first higher then lower, and performs various gymnastic

movements over him with a significant expression on his face, Ivan Ilych

submits to it all as he used to submit to the speeches of the lawyers,

though he knew very well that they were all lying and why they were lying.

 

The doctor, kneeling on the sofa, is still sounding him when Praskovya

Fedorovna’s silk dress rustles at the door and she is heard scolding Peter

for not having let her know of the doctor’s arrival.

 

She comes in, kisses her husband, and at once proceeds to prove that she has

been up a long time already, and only owing to a misunderstanding failed to

be there when the doctor arrived.

 

Ivan Ilych looks at her, scans her all over, sets against her the whiteness

and plumpness and cleanness of her hands and neck, the gloss of her hair,

and the sparkle of her vivacious eyes. He hates her with his whole soul. And

the thrill of hatred he feels for her makes him suffer from her touch.

 

Her attitude towards him and his diseases is still the same. Just as the

doctor had adopted a certain relation to his patient which he could not

abandon, so had she formed one towards him — that he was not doing something

he ought to do and was himself to blame, and that she reproached him

lovingly for this — and she could not now change that attitude.

 

“You see he doesn’t listen to me and doesn’t take his medicine at the proper

time. And above all he lies in a position that is no doubt bad for him —

with his legs up.”

 

She described how he made Gerasim hold his legs up.

 

The doctor smiled with a contemptuous affability that said: “What’s to be

done? These sick people do have foolish fancies of that kind, but we must

forgive them.”

 

When the examination was over the doctor looked at his watch, and then

Praskovya Fedorovna announced to Ivan Ilych that it was of course as he

pleased, but she had sent today for a celebrated specialist who would

examine him and have a consultation with Michael Danilovich (their regular

doctor).

 

“Please don’t raise any objections. I am doing this for my own sake,” she

said ironically, letting it be felt