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THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYCH.TXT-Part7_LEO TOLSTOY (1828-1910)_Translated Works(翻译文学)-第2页

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Ilych would turn his attention to it and try to drive the thought



of it away, but without success. *It* would come and stand before

him and look at him, and he would be petrified and the light would



die out of his eyes, and he would again begin asking himself

whether *It* alone was true. And his colleagues and subordinates



would see with surprise and distress that he, the brilliant and

subtle judge, was becoming confused and making mistakes. He would



shake himself, try to pull himself together, manage somehow to

bring the sitting to a close, and return home with the sorrowful



consciousness that his judicial labours could not as formerly hide

from him what he wanted them to hide, and could not deliver him



from *It*. And what was worst of all was that *It* drew his

attention to itself not in order to make him take some action but



only that he should look at *It*, look it straight in the face:

look at it and without doing anything, suffer inexpressibly.



And to save himself from this condition Ivan Ilych looked for

consolations -- new screens -- and new screens were found and for



a while seemed to save him, but then they immediately fell to

pieces or rather became transparent, as if *It* penetrated them and



nothing could veil *It*.

In these latter days he would go into the drawing-room he had



arranged -- that drawing-room where he had fallen and for the sake

of which (how bitterlyridiculous it seemed) he had sacrificed his



life -- for he knew that his illness originated with that knock.

He would enter and see that something had scratched the polished



table. He would look for the cause of this and find that it was

the bronze ornamentation of an album, that had got bent. He would



take up the expensive album which he had lovingly arranged, and

feel vexed with his daughter and her friends for their untidiness



-- for the album was torn here and there and some of the

photographs turned upside down. He would put it carefully in order



and bend the ornamentation back into position. Then it would occur

to him to place all those things in another corner of the room,



near the plants. He would call the footman, but his daughter or

wife would come to help him. They would not agree, and his wife



would contradict him, and he would dispute and grow angry. But that

was all right, for then he did not think about *It*. *It* was



invisible.

But then, when he was moving something himself, his wife would



say: "Let the servants do it. You will hurt yourself again." And

suddenly *It* would flash through the screen and he would see it.



It was just a flash, and he hoped it would disappear, but he would

involuntarily pay attention to his side. "It sits there as before,



gnawing just the same!" And he could no longer forget *It*, but

could distinctly see it looking at him from behind the flowers.



"What is it all for?"

"It really is so! I lost my life over that curtain as I might



have done when storming a fort. Is that possible? How terrible

and how stupid. It can't be true! It can't, but it is."



He would go to his study, lie down, and again be alone with

*It*: face to face with *It*. And nothing could be done with *It*



except to look at it and shudder.

VII



How it happened it is impossible to say because it came about

step by step, unnoticed, but in the third month of Ivan Ilych's



illness, his wife, his daughter, his son, his acquaintances, the

doctors, the servants, and above all he himself, were aware that



the whole interest he had for other people was whether he would

soon vacate his place, and at last release the living from the



discomfort caused by his presence and be himself released from his

sufferings.



He slept less and less. He was given opium and hypodermic

injections of morphine, but this did not relieve him. The dull



depression he experienced in a somnolent condition at first gave

him a little relief, but only as something new, afterwards it



became as distressing as the pain itself or even more so.

Special foods were prepared for him by the doctors' orders,



but all those foods became increasinglydistasteful and disgusting

to him.



For his excretions also special arrangements had to be made,

and this was a torment to him every time -- a torment from the



uncleanliness, the unseemliness, and the smell, and from knowing

that another person had to take part in it.



But just through his most unpleasant matter, Ivan Ilych

obtained comfort. Gerasim, the butler's young assistant, always



came in to carry the things out. Gerasim was a clean, fresh

peasant lad, grown stout on town food and always cheerful and






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