The Eternal Husband and Other Stories

“Yes, the chest and phlegm, and suddenly no phlegm, and the chest, and I couldn’t breathe… and you know…”

“I know, I know. But if it was your chest, you should have gone to Ecke, not to Schulz.”

“And, you know, I kept thinking of Botkin¹²… and suddenly…”

“Well, Botkin’s a bit stiff,” the general observed.

“Ah, no, he’s not stiff at all; I hear he’s so attentive and tells you everything beforehand.”

“His Excellency was referring to the cost,” the official corrected.

“Ah, come now, just three roubles, and he examines so well, and his prescriptions… and I absolutely wanted to, because I was told… What about it, gentlemen, shall I go to Ecke or to Botkin?”

“What? Where?” the general’s corpse heaved, guffawing pleasantly. The official seconded him in falsetto.

“Dear boy, dear, delightful boy, how I love you!” Avdotya Ignatievna squealed rapturously. “I wish they’d laid one like him next to me!”

No, this I simply cannot allow! And this is a contemporary dead person! However, I must listen further and not jump to conclusions. This milksop newcomer—I remember him in his coffin just now—the expression of a frightened chick, the most disgusting in the world! What next, though.

But next such a hullabaloo broke out that my memory has not retained it all, for a great many woke up at once: an official woke up, one of our state councillors, and started in with the general right there and then about a projected subcommission in the ministry of———affairs and about a probable reshuffling of official posts attendant upon the subcommission, which the general found quite, quite amusing. I confess, I myself learned many new things, so that I marveled at the ways in which administrative news can sometimes be learned in this capital. Then some engineer half awoke, but for a long time he went on muttering complete nonsense, so that our people didn’t even bother with him, but left him to lie it out for a while. Finally, the noble lady buried in the morning under a catafalque displayed signs of sepulchral inspiration. Lebezyatnikov (for the fawning court councillor I hated, the one placed next to General Pervoedov, turned out to be named Lebezyatnikov) fussed a lot, surprised at them all waking up so quickly this time. I confess that I, too, was surprised; however, some of the ones that woke up had been buried two days before, for instance, one very young girl, about sixteen years old, who kept giggling—vilely and carnivorously giggling.

“Your Excellency, the privy councillor Tarasevich is waking up!” Lebezyatnikov announced suddenly in great haste.

“Ah, what’s this?” the suddenly awakened privy councillor maundered squeamishly and in a lisping voice. The sound of his voice had something capriciously peremptory about it. I listened with curiosity, for in recent days I had heard something about this Tarasevich—tempting and alarming in the highest degree.

“It’s me, Your Excellency, so far it’s just me, sir.”

“What is your request and what is it you want?”

“Only to inquire after Your Excellency’s health; being unaccustomed, everybody feels sort of cramped here at first, sir… General Pervoedov wishes to have the honor of making Your Excellency’s acquaintance and hopes…”

“Never heard of him.”

“Good gracious, Your Excellency, General Pervoedov, Vassily Vassilievich…”

“You are General Pervoedov?”

“No, Your Excellency, I’m merely Court Councillor Lebezyatnikov, at your service, sir, but General Pervoedov…”

“Nonsense! And I beg you to leave me in peace.”

“Leave off,” General Pervoedov himself finally put a dignified stop to the vile haste of his sepulchral client.

“He’s not awake yet, Your Excellency, you must keep that in view, sir; it’s from not being accustomed: he’ll wake up and then take it differently, sir…”

“Leave off,” the general repeated.

“Vassily Vassilievich! Hey there, Your Excellency!” an entirely new voice suddenly shouted loudly and eagerly right next to Avdotya Ignatievna—a gentlemanly and brash voice with a fashionably weary articulation and an impudent scansion. “I’ve been observing the lot of you for two hours already; I’ve been lying here for three days; remember me, Vassily Vassilievich? Klinevich—we used to meet at the Volokonskys’, where I don’t know why but you, too, were admitted.”

“Well, Count Pyotr Petrovich… but can it be that you, too… and so young… I am sorry!”

“I’m sorry myself, only it’s all the same to me, and I want to get the most I can from everywhere. And it’s not count, it’s baron, just plain baron. We’re some mangy little barons, from lackey ancestry, and I don’t even know why—spit on it. I’m just a blackguard from pseudo-high-society and considered a ‘sweet polisson.’¹³ My father was some sort of little general, and my mother was once received en haut lie.¹⁴ Ziefel the Yid and I passed fifty thousand in false banknotes last year, but I denounced him, and Yulka Charpentier de Lusignan¹⁵ took all the money with her to Bordeaux. And, imagine, I was already quite engaged—the Shchevalevsky girl, three months shy of sixteen, still in boarding school, comes with ninety thousand in dowry. Avdotya Ignatievna, remember how you corrupted me fifteen years ago, when I was just a fourteen-year-old page?…”

“Ah, it’s you, you blackguard! Well, at least God sent you, otherwise here it’s…”

“You shouldn’t have suspected your negotiant neighbor of smelling bad… I just kept quiet and laughed. It’s from me; they even buried me in a nailed coffin.”

“Ah, nasty man! Only I’m glad even so; you wouldn’t believe, Klinevich, you wouldn’t believe what a dearth of life and wit there is here.”

“Yes, yes, but I intend to start something original here. Your Excellency—not you, Pervoedov—Your Excellency,