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The Death of Ivan Ilych
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Chapter 9

His wife returned late at night. She came in on tiptoe, but

he heard her, opened his eyes, and made haste to close them again.

She wished to send Gerasim away and to sit with him herself, but he

opened his eyes and said: "No, go away."

"Are you in great pain?"

"Always the same."

"Take some opium."

He agreed and took some. She went away.

Till about three in the morning he was in a state of stupefied

misery. It seemed to him that he and his pain were being thrust

into a narrow, deep black sack, but though they were pushed further

and further in they could not be pushed to the bottom. And this,

terrible enough in itself, was accompanied by suffering. He was

frightened yet wanted to fall through the sack, he struggled but

yet co-operated. And suddenly he broke through, fell, and regained

consciousness. Gerasim was sitting at the foot of the bed dozing

quietly and patiently, while he himself lay with his emaciated

stockinged legs resting on Gerasim's shoulders; the same shaded

candle was there and the same unceasing pain.

"Go away, Gerasim," he whispered.

"It's all right, sir. I'll stay a while."

"No. Go away."

He removed his legs from Gerasim's shoulders, turned sideways

onto his arm, and felt sorry for himself. He only waited till

Gerasim had gone into the next room and then restrained himself no

longer but wept like a child. He wept on account of his

helplessness, his terrible loneliness, the cruelty of man, the

cruelty of God, and the absence of God.

"Why hast Thou done all this? Why hast Thou brought me here?

Why, why dost Thou torment me so terribly?"

He did not expect an answer and yet wept because there was no

answer and could be none. The pain again grew more acute, but he

did not stir and did not call. He said to himself: "Go on!

Strike me! But what is it for? What have I done to Thee? What is

it for?"

Then he grew quiet and not only ceased weeping but even held

his breath and became all attention. It was as though he were

listening not to an audible voice but to the voice of his soul, to

the current of thoughts arising within him.

"What is it you want?" was the first clear conception capable

of expression in words, that he heard.

"What do you want? What do you want?" he repeated to himself.

"What do I want? To live and not to suffer," he answered.

And again he listened with such concentrated attention that

even his pain did not distract him.

"To live? How?" asked his inner voice.

"Why, to live as I used to—well and pleasantly."

"As you lived before, well and pleasantly?" the voice


And in imagination he began to recall the best moments of his

pleasant life. But strange to say none of those best moments of

his pleasant life now seemed at all what they had then seemed—

none of them except the first recollections of childhood. There,

in childhood, there had been something really pleasant with which

it would be possible to live if it could return. But the child who

had experienced that happiness existed no longer, it was like a

reminiscence of somebody else.

as soon as the period began which had produced the present

Ivan Ilych, all that had then seemed joys now melted before his

sight and turned into something trivial and often nasty.

And the further he departed from childhood and the nearer he

came to the present the more worthless and doubtful were the joys.

This began with the School of Law. A little that was really good

was still found there—there was light-heartedness, friendship,

and hope. But in the upper classes there had already been fewer of

such good moments. Then during the first years of his official

career, when he was in the service of the governor, some pleasant

moments again occurred: they were the memories of love for a

woman. Then all became confused and there was still less of what

was good; later on again there was still less that was good, and

the further he went the less there was. His marriage, a mere

accident, then the disenchantment that followed it, his wife's bad

breath and the sensuality and hypocrisy: then that deadly official

life and those preoccupations about money, a year of it, and two,

and ten, and twenty, and always the same thing. And the longer it

lasted the more deadly it became. "It is as if I had been going

downhill while I imagined I was going up. And that is really what

it was. I was going up in public opinion, but to the same extent

life was ebbing away from me. And now it is all done and there is

only death.

"Then what does it mean? Why? It can't be that life is so

senseless and horrible. But if it really has been so horrible and

senseless, why must I die and die in agony? There is something


"Maybe I did not live as I ought to have done," it suddenly

occurred to him. "But how could that be, when I did everything

properly?" he replied, and immediately dismissed from his mind

this, the sole solution of all the riddles of life and death, as

something quite impossible.

"Then what do you want now? To live? Live how? Live as you

lived in the law courts when the usher proclaimed 'The judge is

coming!' The judge is coming, the judge!" he repeated to himself.

"Here he is, the judge. But I am not guilty!" he exclaimed

angrily. "What is it for?" And he ceased crying, but turning his

face to the wall continued to ponder on the same question: Why,

and for what purpose, is there all this horror? But however much

he pondered he found no answer. And whenever the thought occurred

to him, as it often did, that it all resulted from his not having

lived as he ought to have done, he at once recalled the correctness

of his whole life and dismissed so strange an idea.

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