Short Stories
even alarm at the mention of money that he uttered the most unexpected and
foolish phrases:
"Another time, with pleasure," he muttered, "but now ... you really must
excuse me...."
And taking his cap, he ran as fast as he could out of the house. Only the
good-natured youth who had talked about the dream book was any use at all;
and even that came to nothing. He, too, stayed after the others, showing
genuine sympathy with Pseldonimov's misfortunes. At last Pseldonimov,
together with his mother and the young man, decided in consultation not to
send for a doctor, but rather to fetch a carriage and take the invalid
home, and meantime to try certain domestic remedies till the carriage
arrived, such as moistening his temples and his head with cold water,
putting ice on his head, and so on. Pseldonimov's mother undertook this
task. The friendly youth flew off in search of a carriage. As there were
not even ordinary cabs to be found on the Petersburg Side at that hour, he
went off to some livery stables at a distance to wake up the coachmen. They
began bargaining, and declared that five roubles would be little to ask for
a carriage at that time of night. They agreed to come, however, for three.
When at last, just before five o'clock, the young man arrived at
Pseldonimov's with the carriage, they had changed their minds. It appeared
that Ivan Ilyitch, who was still unconscious, had become so seriously
unwell, was moaning and tossing so terribly, that to move him and take him
home in such a condition was impossible and actually unsafe. "What will it
lead to next?" said Pseldonimov, utterly disheartened. What was to be done?
A new problem arose: if the invalid remained in the house, where should he
be moved and where could they put him? There were only two bedsteads in the
house: one large double bed in which old Mlekopitaev and his wife slept,
and another double bed of imitation walnut which had just been purchased
and was destined for the newly married couple. All the other inhabitants of
the house slept on the floor side by side on feather beds, for the most
part in bad condition and stuffy, anything but presentable in fact, and
even of these the supply was insufficient; there was not one to spare.
Where could the invalid be put? A feather bed might perhaps have been
found--it might in the last resort have been pulled from under some one,
but where and on what could a bed have been made up? It seemed that the bed
must be made up in the drawing-room, for that room was the furthest from
the bosom of the family and had a door into the passage. But on what could
the bed be made? Surely not upon chairs. We all know that beds can only be
made up on chairs for schoolboys when they come home for the week end, and
it would be terribly lacking in respect to make up a bed in that way for a
personage like Ivan Ilyitch. What would be said next morning when he found
himself lying on chairs? Pseldonimov would not hear of that. The only
alternative was to put him on the bridal couch. This bridal couch, as we
have mentioned already, was in a little room that opened out of the
dining-room, on the bedstead was a double mattress actually newly bought
first-hand, clean sheets, four pillows in pink calico covered with frilled
muslin cases. The quilt was of pink satin, and it was quilted in patterns.
Muslin curtains hung down from a golden ring overhead, in fact it was all
just as it should be, and the guests who had all visited the bridal chamber
had admired the decoration of it; though the bride could not endure
Pseldonimov, she had several times in the course of the evening run in to
have a look at it on the sly. What was her indignation, her wrath, when she
learned that they meant to move an invalid, suffering from something not
unlike a mild attack of cholera, to her bridal couch! The bride's mother
took her part, broke into abuse and vowed she would complain to her husband
next day, but Pseldonimov asserted himself and insisted: Ivan Ilyitch was
moved into the bridal chamber, and a bed was made up on chairs for the
young people. The bride whimpered, would have liked to pinch him, but dared
not disobey; her papa had a crutch with which she was very familiar, and
she knew that her papa would call her to account next day. To console her
they carried the pink satin quilt and the pillows in muslin cases into the
drawing-room. At that moment the youth arrived with the carriage, and was
horribly alarmed that the carriage was not wanted. He was left to pay for
it himself, and he never had as much as a ten-kopeck piece. Pseldonimov
explained that he was utterly bankrupt. They tried to parley with the
driver. But he began to be noisy and even to batter on the shutters. How it
ended I don't know exactly. I believe the youth was carried off to Peski by
way of a hostage to Fourth Rozhdensky Street, where he hoped to rouse a
student who was spending the night at a friend's, and to try whether he
had any money. It was going on for six o'clock in the morning when the
young people were left alone and shut up in the drawing-room. Pseldonimov's
mother spent the whole night by the bedside of the sufferer. She installed
herself on a rug on the floor and covered herself with an old coat, but
could not sleep because she had to get up every minute: Ivan Ilyitch had a
terrible attack of colic. Madame Pseldonimov, a woman of courage and
greatness of soul, undressed him with her own hands, took off all his
things, looked after him as if he were her own son, and spent the whole
night carrying basins, etc., from the bedroom across the passage and
bringing them back again empty. And yet the misfortunes of that night were
not yet over.
* * * * *
Not more than ten minutes after the young people had been shut up alone in
the drawing-room, a piercing shriek was suddenly heard, not a cry of joy,
but a shriek of the most sinister kind. The screams were followed by a
noise, a crash, as though of the falling of chairs, and instantly there
burst into the still dark room a perfect crowd of exclaiming and frightened
women, attired in every kind of _déshabillé_. These women were the bride's
mother, her elder sister, abandoning for the moment the sick children, and
her three aunts, even the one with a broken rib dragged herself in. Even
the cook was there, and the German lady who told stories, whose own feather
bed, the best in the house, and her only property, had been forcibly
dragged from under her for the young couple, trailed in together with the
others. All these respectable and sharp-eyed ladies had, a quarter of an
hour before, made their way on tiptoe from the kitchen across the passage,
and were listening in the ante-room, devoured by unaccountable curiosity.
Meanwhile some one lighted a candle, and a surprising spectacle met the
eyes of all. The chairs supporting the broad feather bed only at the sides
had parted under the weight, and the feather bed had fallen between them on
the floor. The bride was sobbing with anger, this time she was mortally
offended. Pseldonimov, morally shattered, stood like a criminal caught in a
crime. He did not even attempt to defend himself. Shrieks and exclamations
sounded on all sides. Pseldonimov's mother ran up at the noise, but the
bride's mamma on this occasion got the upper hand. She began by showering
strange and for the most part quite undeserved reproaches, such as: "A nice
husband you are, after this. What are you good for after such a disgrace?"
and so on; and at last carried her daughter away from her husband,
undertaking to bear the full responsibility for doing so with her ferocious
husband, who would demand an explanation. All the others followed her out
exclaiming and shaking their heads. No one remained with Pseldonimov except
his mother, who tried to comfort him. But he sent her away at once.
He was beyond consolation. He made his way to the sofa and sat down in the
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