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THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH.TXT-Part1_LEO TOLSTOY (1828-1910)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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he was alive. the expression on the face said that what was

necessary had been accomplished, and accomplishedrightly. Besides



this there was in that expression a reproach and a warning to the

living. This warning seemed to Peter Ivanovich out of place, or at



least not applicable to him. He felt a certain discomfort and so

he hurriedly crossed himself once more and turned and went out of



the door -- too hurriedly and too regardless of propriety, as he

himself was aware.



Schwartz was waiting for him in the adjoining room with legs

spread wide apart and both hands toying with his top-hat behind his



back. The mere sight of that playful, well-groomed, and elegant

figure refreshed Peter Ivanovich. He felt that Schwartz was above



all these happenings and would not surrender to any depressing

influences. His very look said that this incident of a church



service for Ivan Ilych could not be a sufficient reason for

infringing the order of the session -- in other words, that it



would certainly not prevent his unwrapping a new pack of cards and

shuffling them that evening while a footman placed fresh candles on



the table: in fact, that there was no reason for supposing that

this incident would hinder their spending the evening agreeably.



Indeed he said this in a whisper as Peter Ivanovich passed him,

proposing that they should meet for a game at Fedor Vasilievich's.



But apparently Peter Ivanovich was not destined to play bridge that

evening. Praskovya Fedorovna (a short, fat woman who despite all



efforts to the contrary had continued to broadensteadily from her

shoulders downwards and who had the same extraordinarilyarched



eyebrows as the lady who had been standing by the coffin), dressed

all in black, her head covered with lace, came out of her own room



with some other ladies, conducted them to the room where the dead

body lay, and said: "The service will begin immediately. Please



go in."

Schwartz, making an indefinite bow, stood still, evidently



neither accepting nor declining this invitation. Praskovya

Fedorovna recognizing Peter Ivanovich, sighed, went close up to



him, took his hand, and said: "I know you were a true friend to

Ivan Ilych..." and looked at him awaiting some suitable response.



And Peter Ivanovich knew that, just as it had been the right thing

to cross himself in that room, so what he had to do here was to



press her hand, sigh, and say, "Believe me..." So he did all this

and as he did it felt that the desired result had been achieved:



that both he and she were touched.

"Come with me. I want to speak to you before it begins," said



the widow. "Give me your arm."

Peter Ivanovich gave her his arm and they went to the inner



rooms, passing Schwartz who winked at Peter Ivanovich

compassionately.



"That does for our bridge! Don's object if we find another

player. Perhaps you can cut in when you do escape," said his



playful look.

Peter Ivanovich sighed still more deeply and despondently, and



Praskovya Fedorovna pressed his arm gratefully. When they reached

the drawing-room, upholstered in pink cretonne and lighted by a dim



lamp, they sat down at the table -- she on a sofa and Peter

Ivanovich on a low pouffe, the springs of which yielded



spasmodically under his weight. Praskovya Fedorovna had been on

the point of warning him to take another seat, but felt that such



a warning was out of keeping with her present condition and so

changed her mind. As he sat down on the pouffe Peter Ivanovich



recalled how Ivan Ilych had arranged this room and had consulted

him regarding this pink cretonne with green leaves. The whole room



was full of furniture and knick-knacks, and on her way to the sofa

the lace of the widow's black shawl caught on the edge of the



table. Peter Ivanovich rose to detach it, and the springs of the

pouffe, relieved of his weight, rose also and gave him a push. The



widow began detaching her shawl herself, and Peter Ivanovich again

sat down, suppressing the rebellious springs of the pouffe under



him. But the widow had not quite freed herself and Peter Ivanovich

got up again, and again the pouffe rebelled and even creaked. When



this was all over she took out a clean cambric handkerchief and

began to weep. The episode with the shawl and the struggle with



the pouffe had cooled Peter Ivanovich's emotions and he sat there

with a sullen look on his face. This awkward situation was






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