Its really nice that I went by foot, he thought to himself, both a lesson to Trifon and a pleasure for me. Indeed, I must go by foot more often. So what? On Bolshoi Prospect Ill find a cab at once. A nice night! What wretched little houses here. Must all be petty folk, clerks merchants, maybe that Stepan Nikiforovich! and what retrogrades they all are, the old nightcaps! Precisely nightcaps, cest le mot! 9Hes an intelligent man, though; he has this bon sens 10a sober, practical understanding of things. No, but these old
men, old men! They lack what do you call it? Well, they lack something We wont hold out! What did he mean by that? He even fell to thinking when he said it. By the way, he didnt understand me at all. But how could he not? Its harder not to understand than to understand. Above all, Im convinced, convinced in my soul. Humaneness love of mankind. Restore man to himself revive his personal dignity, and then with this ready material get down to business. Seems clear! Yes, sir! I beg your pardon, Your Excellency, take the syllogism: we meet a clerk, for instance, a poor, downtrodden clerk. Well what are you? Answer: A clerk. All right, so hes a clerk; then: What kind of a clerk? Answer: such-and-such kind. Youre in the civil service? I am! Want to be happy? I do. What does one need for happiness? This and that. Why? Because And so the man understands me after a couple of words: the man is mine, the man is caught, so to speak, in the net, and I can do whatever I like with himfor his own good, that is. A nasty man, this Semyon Ivanych! And such a nasty mug A whipping at the police stationhe said it on purpose. No, lies, you do the whipping, I wont; Ill get Trifon with words, Ill get him with reproaches, and hell feel it. About birch rods, 11hm an unsolved problem, hm But shouldnt I stop at Emerances? Pah, the devil, you cursed planks! he cried, suddenly tripping. And this is the capital! Enlightenment! You could break a leg. Hm. I hate this Semyon Ivanych; a most disgusting mug. He sniggered at me tonight when I said theyd embrace each other morally. So they will, and what do you care? You I wont embrace; sooner a peasant Ill meet a peasant, and talk with a peasant. Anyhow, I was drunk, and maybe didnt express myself properly. Maybe Im not expressing myself properly now either Hm. Im never going to drink. You babble in the evening, then the next day you repent. So what, Im not staggering as I walk And anyhow, theyre all rogues!
So Ivan Ilyich reasoned, desultorily and incoherently, as he went on down the sidewalk. The fresh air affected him and, so to speak, got him going. Another five minutes and he would have calmed down and wanted to sleep. But suddenly, about two steps from Bolshoi Prospect, he heard music. He looked around. On the other side of the street, in a very decrepit, one-story, but long wooden house, a great feast was going on, fiddles hummed, a string bass droned, and a flute spouted shrilly to a very merry quadrille tune. The public was standing under the windows, mostly women in quilted coats with kerchiefs on their heads; they strained all their efforts to make something out through the chinks in the blinds. Obviously there was merriment. The sound of the dancers stomping reached the other side of the street. Ivan Ilyich noticed a policeman not far away and went up to him.
Whose house is that, brother? he said, throwing his expensive fur coat open slightly, just enough so that the policeman could notice the important decoration on his neck.
The clerk Pseldonymovs, a legistrar, 12the policeman, who instantly managed to make out the decoration, replied, straightening up.
Pseldonymov? Hah! Pseldonymov! Whats he doing, getting married?
Getting married, Your Honor, to a titular councillors daughter. Mlekopitaev, 13a titular councillor served on the board. That house comes with the bride, sir.
So its already Pseldonymovs house, not Mlekopitaevs?
Pseldonymovs, Your Honor. Used to be Mlekopitaevs, and now its Pseldonymovs.
Hm. Im asking, brother, because Im his superior. Im general over the place where Pseldonymov works.
Right, Your Excellency. The policeman drew himself all the way up, but Ivan Ilyich seemed to have lapsed into thought. He was standing and reflecting
Yes, Pseldonymov actually was from his department, from his own office; he recalled that. He was a petty clerk, with a salary of about ten roubles a month. Since Mr. Pralinsky had taken over his office still very recently, he might not have remembered all his subordinates in too much detail, but Pseldonymov he did remember, precisely apropos of his last name. It had leaped out at him from the very first, so that he had been curious right then to have a closer look at the owner of such a name. He now recalled a man still very young, with a long, hooked nose, with blond and wispy hair, skinny and malnourished, in an impossible uniform, and unmentionables impossible even to the point of indecency. He remembered how the thought had flashed in him right then: should he not award the wretch some ten roubles to fix himself up for the holiday? But since the wretchs face was all too lenten, and had an extremely unpleasant