most gloomy confusion of mind just as he was, barefooted and in nothing but
his night attire. His thoughts whirled in a tangled criss-cross in his
mind. At times he mechanically looked about the room where only a little
while ago the dancers had been whirling madly, and in which the cigarette
smoke still lingered. Cigarette ends and sweet-meat papers still littered
the slopped and dirty floor. The wreck of the nuptial couch and the
overturned chairs bore witness to the transitoriness of the fondest and
surest earthly hopes and dreams. He sat like this almost an hour. The most
oppressive thoughts kept coming into his mind, such as the doubt: What was
in store for him in the office now? He recognised with painful clearness
that he would have, at all costs, to exchange into another department; that
he could not possibly remain where he was after all that had happened that
evening. He thought, too, of Mlekopitaev, who would probably make him
dance the Cossack dance next day to test his meekness. He reflected, too,
that though Mlekopitaev had given fifty roubles for the wedding
festivities, every farthing of which had been spent, he had not thought of
giving him the four hundred roubles yet, no mention had been made of it, in
fact. And, indeed, even the house had not been formally made over to him.
He thought, too, of his wife who had left him at the most critical moment
of his life, of the tall officer who had dropped on one knee before her. He
had noticed that already; he thought of the seven devils which according to
the testimony of her own father were in possession of his wife, and of the
crutch in readiness to drive them out.... Of course he felt equal to
bearing a great deal, but destiny had let loose such surprises upon him
that he might well have doubts of his fortitude. So Pseldonimov mused
dolefully. Meanwhile the candle end was going out, its fading light,
falling straight upon Pseldonimov's profile, threw a colossal shadow of it
on the wall, with a drawn-out neck, a hooked nose, and with two tufts of
hair sticking out on his forehead and the back of his head. At last, when
the air was growing cool with the chill of early morning, he got up, frozen
and spiritually numb, crawled to the feather bed that was lying between the
chairs, and without rearranging anything, without putting out the candle
end, without even laying the pillow under his head, fell into a leaden,
deathlike sleep, such as the sleep of men condemned to flogging on the
morrow must be.
* * * * *
On the other hand, what could be compared with the agonising night spent by
Ivan Ilyitch Pralinsky on the bridal couch of the unlucky Pseldonimov! For
some time, headache, vomiting and other most unpleasant symptoms did not
leave him for one second. He was in the torments of hell. The faint
glimpses of consciousness that visited his brain, lighted up such an abyss
of horrors, such gloomy and revolting pictures, that it would have been
better for him not to have returned to consciousness. Everything was still
in a turmoil in his mind, however. He recognised Pseldonimov's mother, for
instance, heard her gentle admonitions, such as: "Be patient, my dear; be
patient, good sir, it won't be so bad presently." He recognised her, but
could give no logical explanation of her presence beside him. Revolting
phantoms haunted him, most frequently of all he was haunted by Semyon
Ivanitch; but looking more intently, he saw that it was not Semyon Ivanitch
but Pseldonimov's nose. He had visions, too, of the free-and-easy artist,
and the officer and the old lady with her face tied up. What interested him
most of all was the gilt ring which hung over his head, through which the
curtains hung. He could distinguish it distinctly in the dim light of the
candle end which lighted up the room, and he kept wondering inwardly: What
was the object of that ring, why was it there, what did it mean? He
questioned the old lady several times about it, but apparently did not say
what he meant; and she evidently did not understand it, however much he
struggled to explain. At last by morning the symptoms had ceased and he
fell into a sleep, a sound sleep without dreams. He slept about an hour,
and when he woke he was almost completely conscious, with an insufferable
headache, and a disgusting taste in his mouth and on his tongue, which
seemed turned into a piece of cloth. He sat up in the bed, looked about
him, and pondered. The pale light of morning peeping through the cracks of
the shutters in a narrow streak, quivered on the wall. It was about seven
o'clock in the morning. But when Ivan Ilyitch suddenly grasped the position
and recalled all that had happened to him since the evening; when he
remembered all his adventures at supper, the failure of his magnanimous
action, his speech at table; when he realised all at once with horrifying
clearness all that might come of this now, all that people would say and
think of him; when he looked round and saw to what a mournful and hideous
condition he had reduced the peaceful bridal couch of his clerk--oh, then
such deadly shame, such agony overwhelmed him, that he uttered a shriek,
hid his face in his hands and fell back on the pillow in despair. A minute
later he jumped out of bed, saw his clothes carefully folded and brushed on
a chair beside him, and seizing them, and as quickly as he could, in
desperate haste began putting them on, looking round and seeming terribly
frightened at something. On another chair close by lay his greatcoat and
fur cap, and his yellow gloves were in his cap. He meant to steal away
secretly. But suddenly the door opened and the elder Madame Pseldonimov
walked in with an earthenware jug and basin. A towel was hanging over her
shoulder. She set down the jug, and without further conversation told him
that he must wash.
"Come, my good sir, wash; you can't go without washing...."
And at that instant Ivan Ilyitch recognised that if there was one being in
the whole world whom he need not fear, and before whom he need not feel
ashamed, it was that old lady. He washed. And long afterwards, at painful
moments of his life, he recalled among other pangs of remorse all the
circumstances of that waking, and that earthenware basin, and the china jug
filled with cold water in which there were still floating icicles, and the
oval cake of soap at fifteen kopecks, in pink paper with letters embossed
on it, evidently bought for the bridal pair though it fell to Ivan Ilyitch
to use it, and the old lady with the linen towel over her left shoulder.
The cold water refreshed him, he dried his face, and without even thanking
his sister of mercy, he snatched up his hat, flung over his shoulders the
coat handed to him by Pseldonimov, and crossing the passage and the
kitchen where the cat was already mewing, and the cook sitting up in her
bed staring after him with greedy curiosity, ran out into the yard, into
the street, and threw himself into the first sledge he came across. It was
a frosty morning. A chilly yellow fog still hid the house and everything.
Ivan Ilyitch turned up his collar. He thought that every one was looking at
him, that they were all recognising him, all....
* * * * *
For eight days he did not leave the house or show himself at the office. He
was ill, wretchedly ill, but more morally than physically. He lived through
a perfect hell in those days, and they must have been reckoned to his
account in the other world. There were moments when he thought of becoming
a monk and entering a monastery. There really were. His imagination,
indeed, took special excursions during that period. He pictured subdued
subterranean singing, an open coffin, living in a solitary cell, forests
and caves; but when he came to himself he recognised almost at once that
all this was dreadful nonsense and exaggeration, and was ashamed of this
nonsense. Then began attacks of moral agony on the theme of his _existence
manquée_. Then shame flamed up again in his soul, took complete possession
of him at once, consumed him like fire and re-opened his wounds. He
shuddered as pictures of all sorts rose before his mind. What would people
say about him, what would they think when he walked into his office? What a
whisper would dog his steps for a whole year, ten years, his whole life!
His story would go down to posterity. He sometimes fell into such dejection
that he was ready to go straight off to Semyon Ivanovitch and ask for his
forgiveness and friendship. He did not even justify himself, there was no
limit to his blame of himself. He could find no extenuating circumstances,
and was ashamed of trying to.
He had thoughts, too, of resigning his post at once and devoting himself to
human happiness as a simple citizen, in solitude. In any case he would have
completely to change his whole circle of acquaintances, and so thoroughly
as to eradicate all memory of himself. Then the thought occurred to him
that this, too, was nonsense, and that if he adopted greater severity with
his subordinates it might all be set right. Then he began to feel hope and
courage again. At last, at the expiration of eight days of hesitation and
agonies, he felt that he could not endure to be in uncertainty any longer,
and _un beau matin_ he made up his mind to go to the office.
He had pictured a thousand times over his return to the office as he sat at
home in misery. With horror and conviction he told himself that he would
certainly hear behind him an ambiguous whisper, would see ambiguous faces,
would intercept ominous smiles. What was his surprise when nothing of the
sort happened. He was greeted with respect; he was met with bows; every one
was grave; every one was busy. His heart was filled with joy as he made his
way to his own room.
He set to work at once with the utmost gravity, he listened to some reports
and explanations, settled doubtful points. He felt as though he had never
explained knotty points and given his decisions so intelligently, so
judiciously as that morning. He saw that they were satisfied with him, that
they respected him, that he was treated with respect. The most thin-skinned
sensitiveness could not have discovered anything.
At last Akim Petrovitch made his appearance with some document. The sight
of him sent a stab to Ivan Ilyitch's heart, but only for an instant. He
went into the business with Akim Petrovitch, talked with dignity, explained
things, and showed him what was to be done. The only thing he noticed was
that he avoided looking at Akim Petrovitch for any length of time, or
rather Akim Petrovitch seemed afraid of catching his eye, but at last Akim
Petrovitch had finished and began to collect his papers.
"And there is one other matter," he began as dryly as he could, "the clerk
Pseldonimov's petition to be transferred to another department. His
Excellency Semyon Ivanovitch Shipulenko has promised him a post. He begs
your gracious assent, your Excellency."
"Oh, so he is being transferred," said Ivan Ilyitch, and he felt as though
a heavy weight had rolled off his heart. He glanced at Akim Petrovitch, and
at that instant their eyes met. "Certainly, I for my part ... I will use,"
answered Ivan Ilyitch; "I am ready."
Akim Petrovitch evidently wanted to slip away as quickly as he could. But
in a rush of generous feeling Ivan Ilyitch determined to speak out.
Apparently some inspiration had come to him again.
"Tell him," he began, bending a candid glance full of profound meaning upon
Akim Petrovitch, "tell Pseldonimov that I feel no ill-will, no, I do
not!... That on the contrary I am ready to forget all that is past, to
forget it all...."
But all at once Ivan Ilyitch broke off, looking with wonder at the strange
behaviour of Akim Petrovitch, who suddenly seemed transformed from a
sensible person into a fearful fool. Instead of listening and hearing Ivan
Ilyitch to the end, he suddenly flushed crimson in the silliest way, began
with positively unseemly haste making strange little bows, and at the same
time edging towards the door. His whole appearance betrayed a desire to
sink through the floor, or more accurately, to get back to his table as
quickly as possible. Ivan Ilyitch, left alone, got up from his chair in
confusion; he looked in the looking-glass without noticing his face.
"No, severity, severity and nothing but severity," he whispered almost
unconsciously, and suddenly a vivid flush over-spread his face. He felt
suddenly more ashamed, more weighed down than he had been in the most
insufferable moments of his eight days of tribulation. "I did break down!"
he said to himself, and sank helplessly into his chair.
ANOTHER MAN'S WIFE
OR
THE HUSBAND UNDER THE BED
AN EXTRAORDINARY ADVENTURE
I
"Be so kind, sir ... allow me to ask you...."
The gentleman so addressed started and looked with some alarm at the
gentleman in raccoon furs who had accosted him so abruptly at eight o'clock
in the evening in the street. We all know that if a Petersburg gentleman
suddenly in the street speaks to another gentleman with whom he is
unacquainted, the second gentleman is invariably alarmed.
And so the gentleman addressed started and was somewhat alarmed.
"Excuse me for troubling you," said the gentleman in raccoon, "but I ... I
really don't know ... you will pardon me, no doubt; you see, I am a little
upset...."
Only then the young man in the wadded overcoat observed that this gentleman
in the raccoon furs certainly was upset. His wrinkled face was rather pale,
his voice was trembling. He was evidently in some confusion of mind, his
words did not flow easily from his tongue, and it could be seen that it
cost him a terrible effort to present a very humble request to a personage
possibly his inferior in rank or condition, in spite of the urgent
necessity of addressing his request to somebody. And indeed the request was
in any case unseemly, undignified, strange, coming from a man who had such
a dignified fur coat, such a respectable jacket of a superb dark green
colour, and such distinguished decorations adorning that jacket. It was
evident that the gentleman in raccoon was himself confused by all this, so
that at last he could not stand it, but made up his mind to suppress his
emotion and politely to put an end to the unpleasant position he had
himself brought about.
"Excuse me, I am not myself: but it is true you don't know me ... forgive
me for disturbing you; I have changed my mind."
Here, from politeness, he raised his hat and hurried off.
"But allow me...."
The little gentleman had, however, vanished into the darkness, leaving the
gentleman in the wadded overcoat in a state of stupefaction.
"What a queer fellow!" thought the gentleman in the wadded overcoat. After
wondering, as was only natural, and recovering at last from his
stupefaction, he bethought him of his own affairs, and began walking to and
fro, staring intently at the gates of a house with an endless number of
storeys. A fog was beginning to come on, and the young man was somewhat
relieved at it, for his walking up and down was less noticeable in the fog,
though indeed no one could have noticed him but some cabman who had been
waiting all day without a fare.
"Excuse me!"
The young man started again; again the gentleman in raccoon was standing
before him.
"Excuse me again ..." he began, "but you ... you are no doubt an honourable
man! Take no notice of my social position ... but I am getting muddled ...
look at it as man to man ... you see before you, sir, a man craving a
humble favour...."
"If I can.... What do you want?"
"You imagine, perhaps, that I am asking for money," said the mysterious
gentleman, with a wry smile, laughing hysterically and turning pale.
"Oh, dear, no."
"No, I see that I am tiresome to you! Excuse me, I cannot bear myself;
consider that you are seeing a man in an agitated condition, almost of
insanity, and do not draw any conclusion...."
"But to the point, to the point," responded the young man, nodding his head
encouragingly and impatiently.
"Now think of that! A young man like you reminding me to keep to the point,
as though I were some heedless boy! I must certainly be doting!... How do I
seem to you in my degrading position? Tell me frankly."
The young man was overcome with confusion, and said nothing.
"Allow me to ask you openly: have you not seen a lady? That is all that I
have to ask you," the gentleman in the raccoon coat said resolutely at
last.
"Lady?"
"Yes, a lady."
"Yes, I have seen ... but I must say lots of them have passed...."
"Just so," answered the mysterious gentleman, with a bitter smile. "I am
muddled, I did not mean to ask that; excuse me, I meant to say, haven't you
seen a lady in a fox fur cape, in a dark velvet hood and a black veil?"
"No, I haven't noticed one like that ... no. I think I haven't seen one."
"Well, in that case, excuse me!"
The young man wanted to ask a question, but the gentleman in raccoon
vanished again; again he left his patient listener in a state of
stupefaction.
"Well, the devil take him!" thought the young man in the wadded overcoat,
evidently troubled.
With annoyance he turned up his beaver collar, and began cautiously
walking to and fro again before the gates of the house of many storeys. He
was raging inwardly.
"Why doesn't she come out?" he thought. "It will soon be eight o'clock."
The town clock struck eight.
"Oh, devil take you!"
"Excuse me!..."
"Excuse me for speaking like that ... but you came upon me so suddenly that
you quite frightened me," said the young man, frowning and apologising.
"Here I am again. I must strike you as tiresome and queer."
"Be so good as to explain at once, without more ado; I don't know what it
is you want...."
"You are in a hurry. Do you see, I will tell you everything openly, without
wasting words. It cannot be helped. Circumstances sometimes bring together
people of very different characters.... But I see you are impatient, young
man.... So here ... though I really don't know how to tell you: I am
looking for a lady (I have made up my mind to tell you all about it). You
see, I must know where that lady has gone. Who she is--I imagine there is
no need for you to know her name, young man."
"Well, well, what next?"
"What next? But what a tone you take with me! Excuse me, but perhaps I have
offended you by calling you young man, but I had nothing ... in short, if
you are willing to do me a very great service, here it is: a lady--that is,
I mean a gentlewoman of a very good family, of my acquaintance ... I have
been commissioned ... I have no family, you see...."
"Oh!"
"Put yourself in my position, young man (ah, I've done it again; excuse me,
I keep calling you young man). Every minute is precious.... Only fancy,
that lady ... but cannot you tell me who lives in this house?"
"But ... lots of people live here."
"Yes, that is, you are perfectly right," answered the gentleman in raccoon,
giving a slight laugh for the sake of good manners. "I feel I am rather
muddled.... But why do you take that tone? You see, I admit frankly that I
am muddled, and however haughty you are, you have seen enough of my
humiliation to satisfy you.... I say a lady of honourable conduct, that is,
of light tendencies--excuse me, I am so confused; it is as though I were
speaking of literature--Paul de Kock is supposed to be of light tendencies,
and all the trouble comes from him, you see...."
The young man looked compassionately at the gentleman in raccoon, who
seemed in a hopeless muddle and pausing, stared at him with a meaningless
smile and with a trembling hand for no apparent reason gripped the lappet
of his wadded overcoat.
"You ask who lives here?" said the young man, stepping back a little.
"Yes; you told me lots of people live here."
"Here ... I know that Sofya Ostafyevna lives here, too," the young man
brought out in a low and even commiserating tone.
"There, you see, you see! You know something, young man?"
"I assure you I don't, I know nothing ... I judged from your troubled
air...."
"I have just learned from the cook that she does come here; but you are on
the wrong tack, that is, with Sofya Ostafyevna ... she does not know
her...."
"No? Oh ... I beg your pardon, then...."
"I see this is of no interest to you, young man," said the queer man, with
bitter irony.
"Listen," said the young man, hesitating. "I really don't understand why
you are in such a state, but tell me frankly, I suppose you are being
deceived?" The young man smiled approvingly. "We shall understand one
another, anyway," he added, and his whole person loftily betrayed an
inclination to make a half-bow.
"You crush me! But I frankly confess that is just it ... but it happens to
every one!... I am deeply touched by your sympathy. To be sure, among young
men ... though I am not young; but you know, habit, a bachelor life, among
bachelors, we all know...."
"Oh, yes, we all know, we all know! But in what way can I be of assistance
to you?"
"Why, look here: admitting a visit to Sofya Ostafyevna ... though I don't
know for a fact where the lady has gone, I only know that she is in that
house; but seeing you walking up and down, and I am walking up and down on
the same side myself, I thought ... you see, I am waiting for that lady ...
I know that she is there. I should like to meet her and explain to her how
shocking and improper it is!... In fact, you understand me...."
"H'm! Well?"
"I am not acting for myself; don't imagine it; it is another man's wife!
Her husband is standing over there on the Voznesensky Bridge; he wants to
catch her, but he doesn't dare; he is still loath to believe it, as every
husband is." (Here the gentleman in raccoon made an effort to smile.) "I am
a friend of his; you can see for yourself I am a person held in some
esteem; I could not be what you take me for."
"Oh, of course. Well, well!"
"So, you see, I am on the look out for her. The task has been entrusted to
me (the unhappy husband!). But I know that the young lady is sly (Paul de
Kock for ever under her pillow); I am certain she scurries off somewhere on
the sly.... I must confess the cook told me she comes here; I rushed off
like a madman as soon as I heard the news; I want to catch her. I have long
had suspicions, and so I wanted to ask you; you are walking here ...
you--you--I don't know...."
"Come, what is it you want?"
"Yes ... I have not the honour of your acquaintance; I do not venture to
inquire who and what you may be.... Allow me to introduce myself, anyway;
glad to meet you!..."
The gentleman, quivering with agitation, warmly shook the young man's hand.
"I ought to have done this to begin with," he added, "but I have lost all
sense of good manners."
The gentleman in raccoon could not stand still as he talked; he kept
looking about him uneasily, fidgeted with his feet, and like a drowning man
clutched at the young man's hand.
"You see," he went on, "I meant to address you in a friendly way.... Excuse
the freedom.... I meant to ask you to walk along the other side and down
the side street, where there is a back entrance. I, too, on my side, will
walk from the front entrance, so that we cannot miss her; I'm afraid of
missing her by myself; I don't want to miss her. When you see her, stop her
and shout to me.... But I'm mad! Only now I see the foolishness and
impropriety of my suggestion!..."
"No, why, no! It's all right!..."
"Don't make excuses for me; I am so upset. I have never been in such a
state before. As though I were being tried for my life! I must own
indeed--I will be straightforward and honourable with you, young man; I
actually thought you might be the lover."
"That is, to put it simply, you want to know what I am doing here?"
"You are an honourable man, my dear sir. I am far from supposing that you
are _he_, I will not insult you with such a suspicion; but ... give me your
word of honour that you are not the lover...."
"Oh, very well, I'll give you my word of honour that I am a lover, but not
of your wife; otherwise I shouldn't be here in the street, but should be
with her now!"
"Wife! Who told you she was my wife, young man? I am a bachelor, I--that
is, I am a lover myself...."
"You told me there is a husband on Voznesensky Bridge...."
"Of course, of course, I am talking too freely; but there are other ties!
And you know, young man, a certain lightness of character, that is...."
"Yes, yes, to be sure, to be sure...."
"That is, I am not her husband at all...."
"Oh, no doubt. But I tell you frankly that in reassuring you now, I want to
set my own mind at rest, and that is why I am candid with you; you are
upsetting me and in my way. I promise that I will call you. But I most
humbly beg you to move further away and let me alone. I am waiting for some
one too."
"Certainly, certainly, I will move further off. I respect the passionate
impatience of your heart. Oh, how well I understand you at this moment!"