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“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,’18 Your 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. Panaev19 in your dreams, it means you’ll spill coffee on your shirtfront, sir.”
“What i
“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”21 rented 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 fu
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 Firebrand came 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 Firebrand attempted to mix in. But His Excellency tried this time not to hear. He was not going to chuckle for everyone.
“Perfick instead 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.22 With 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-ca
“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.23 It’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.