The Eternal Husband and Other Stories

“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-canner at Pseldonymov’s ball. With hasty greed he rushed for the decanter.

“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.

And just as Ivan Ilyich was addressing himself to the bride again, trying this time to get at her with some quip, the tall officer suddenly jumped over to her and swung himself down on one knee. She jumped up from the sofa at once and fluttered off with him to line up for the quadrille. The officer did not even apologize, nor did she even glance at the general as she left, as if she were even glad of her deliverance.

“However, essentially she’s in her rights,” thought Ivan Ilyich, “and besides, they don’t know propriety.”

“Hm… you mustn’t stand on ceremony, brother Porfiry,” he turned to Pseldonymov. “Perhaps you have something there… to tend to… or whatever… please, don’t be embarrassed.—Is he keeping watch on me, or what?” he added to himself.

He was beginning to find Pseldonymov unbearable, with his long neck and eyes fixed intently on him. In short, all this was not it, not it at all, but Ivan Ilyich was still far from wanting to admit it.

The quadrille began.

“Shall I, Your Excellency?” Akim Petrovich asked, deferentially holding the bottle in his hands and preparing to fill His Excellency’s glass.

“I… I don’t really know if…”

But Akim Petrovich, with a reverently beaming face, was already pouring the champagne. Having filled his glass, he also, as if on the sly, as if thievishly, shrinking and cringing, filled his own, with the difference that he filled it one whole finger less, which was somehow more deferential. He was like a woman in childbirth sitting next to his immediate superior. What indeed was he to talk about? Yet he had to entertain His Excellency even out of duty, since he had the honor of keeping him company. The champagne served as a way out, and it was even pleasing to His Excellency to have his glass filled—not for the sake of the champagne, which was warm and the most natural swill, but just so, morally pleasing.

“The old boy wants a drink himself,” thought Ivan Ilyich, “and he doesn’t dare without me. I mustn’t hinder… And it’s ridiculous if the bottle just stands between us.”

He took a sip, which in any case seemed better than just sitting there.

“I’m here,” he began, with pauses and emphases, “I’m here, so to speak, by chance, and, of course, it may be that the others find… that it’s… so to speak, in-ap-propriate for me to be at such a… gathering.”

Akim Petrovich was silent and listened with timid curiosity.

“But I hope you understand why I’m here… It’s not really that I came to drink wine. Heh, heh!”

Akim Petrovich was about to chuckle along with His Excellency, but somehow stopped short and again did not respond with anything reassuring.