The Eternal Husband and Other Stories

“I am especially, especially glad of this occasion, since I can…” he began, “since I can… herewith pay my… In a word, as a superior… I wish you, madam” (he turned to the bride), “and you, my friend Porfiry—I wish you full, prosperous, and enduring happiness.”

And, even with emotion, he drank off the glass, his seventh that evening. Pseldonymov looked serious and even sullen. The general was beginning to hate him painfully.

“And this hulk” (he glanced at the officer) “is stuck here, too. Why doesn’t he shout ‘hurrah!’ Then it would take off, take right off…”

“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 innocence,” thought Ivan Ilyich, even angrily. The youth, though he became very red as he was saying it, was still incredibly glad that he had told about Mr. Panaev.

“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 espose 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 funny, sir, because,” the blond youth suddenly interrupted joyfully, the one who had told about the shirtfront and to whom the collaborator in the white waistcoat had given a hateful look for it, “funny because, Your Excellency, the writer assumes that Mr. Kraevsky doesn’t know how to spell and thinks that ‘expose literature’ should be written ‘espose literature’…”

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?”