A Guilt and Redemption Collection – 3 Classic Psychological Fiction Novels E-Book
Fyodor Dostoyevsky
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- Herausgeber: e-artnow Collections
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
A Guilt and Redemption Collection – 3 Classic Psychological Fiction Novels brilliantly explores the profound and intricate motifs of guilt and redemption through a diverse array of literary styles and narratives. This anthology brings together three masterpieces of psychological fiction that delve deep into the human psyche, compelling readers to reflect on the moral complexities of life. Through intricate character development and reflective narratives, these works illuminate the struggle of the human spirit to overcome inner turmoil, making each story a poignant study of personal growth. Together, they reflect a literary tradition marked by the intense exploration of moral and existential themes that challenge the reader to consider the intricacies of the human condition. The collection is a collaboration of three luminary writers—Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Émile Zola, and Leo Tolstoy—who collectively shaped the landscape of psychological fiction during the 19th century. Hailing from diverse socio-cultural backgrounds, these authors provide distinctive insights into the cultural and societal milieus of their times, lending authenticity and depth to their narratives. Their works, intertwined with the philosophical undercurrents of their respective environments, contribute to the rich tapestry of European literature and reflect shared concerns about the morality, spirituality, and ethical dilemmas faced by individuals. This collection is indispensable for anyone seeking a profound literary journey through varied yet interconnected perspectives on guilt and redemption. It invites readers to engage with the complex interplay of diverse literary voices, offering a multitude of thoughts and emotions that illuminate the personas of deeply flawed yet fervently seeking characters. Read and reflect as this anthology offers valuable insights into human nature and encapsulates a dialogue across time and culture that continues to resonate with readers today.
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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A Guilt and Redemption Collection – 3 Classic Psychological Fiction Novels
Table of Contents
Introduction
Curatorial Vision
This collection brings together The Death of Ivan Ilych by Leo Tolstoy, Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and Thérèse Raquin by Émile Zola to explore guilt and the possibility of redemption at the furthest limits of psychological fiction. Each work centers on an acute crisis of conscience that radiates outward into social life, asking how a human being confronts wrongdoing, suffering, and the finality of death. By assembling these voices side by side, the volume highlights three distinct but converging models of interior inquiry—ethical, existential, and physiological—while preserving the dramatic intensity and narrative force that have made each title enduringly significant.
Together, the novels sketch a spectrum of culpability and renewal. Dostoyevsky probes moral transgression and spiritual reckoning; Zola examines passion and compulsion under pressures often described as naturalistic; Tolstoy studies mortality and the stripping away of consoling illusions. Our aim is to trace how guilt changes shape across different kinds of necessity—legal, social, bodily, and metaphysical—and how redemption is imagined as confession, catharsis, or lucid acceptance. By following these transformations, the collection invites readers to map the thresholds between punishment and forgiveness, fate and responsibility, and to consider whether redemption is a grace granted, a discipline achieved, or a clarity painfully earned.
What distinguishes this gathering from encountering the works separately is the triangulation it enables. Read alongside one another, the novels reveal complementary angles—fevered introspection, analytical detachment, and sober illumination—that sharpen the defining questions of psychological fiction. The juxtaposition slows hasty moral verdicts, encouraging attention to texture: the rhythm of thought, the atmosphere of rooms, the pressure of social expectations. Rather than offering a single road through guilt and release, the collection charts intersecting paths, allowing each narrative to illuminate blind spots in the others and to complicate any comfort that might arise from a solitary, closed moral frame.
The settings amplify this dialogue: a Petersburg cityscape tense with poverty and pride, a Paris interior humming with secrecy and desire, and Russian officialdom confronting the quiet fact of mortality. These spaces do more than house events; they shape conscience and structure the visibility of transgression. Bringing them together emphasizes how social architecture molds inward states, and how interior revelation can overturn public appearances. Unlike reading singly, where one tonal world dominates, the sequence here stages a progression from agitation, through clinical intensity, toward reflective stillness, not as hierarchy but as a varied field in which the meanings of guilt are tested.
Thematic & Aesthetic Interplay
Across the three works, recurrent motifs ring like tuning forks: doors half‑open, corridors, marketplaces and parlors, the sickroom, sleeplessness, fever, and the persistent measurement of time. These details map the passage from secrecy into exposure. In one novel, a character’s agitation turns every street corner into a tribunal; in another, domestic objects absorb and conceal pressure; in the third, the bed and the clock become instruments of truth. The recurrence of bodies under strain—breath, heartbeat, pulse—anchors moral crisis in sensory experience, while silence and crowd noise alternate as external mirrors for the movements of conscience within.
Contrasts in tone create a living dialogue. Dostoyevsky’s narrative heat and intimate turbulence place readers inside an unsettled ethical debate; Zola’s cool scrutiny examines behavior under constraints that seem starkly material; Tolstoy’s measured clarity strips circumstance down to its final meanings. These divergent registers prevent any single explanation of guilt from hardening into dogma. Together, they raise questions about agency: wrongdoing appears as deliberate choice in one, compulsion in another, and as revelation at the brink of mortality in the third. The novels thus contest one another, each style’s strengths exposing the others’ blind spots and widening the shared field.
Without positing lineage, resonances are unmistakable. Dostoyevsky’s claustrophobic interiors and feverish monologue find a dark counterpoint in Zola’s shop and passageways, where emotion is channeled through routine and constraint. Tolstoy reframes punishment as an inward verdict delivered in moments beside a bed, quietly transforming guilt from a legal question into a metaphysical one. Scenes of crowds and thresholds echo across the books: a public square, a boutique doorway, a bureaucrat’s drawing room. In each case, movement from the street to the room marks the shift from social performance to stark self-recognition, as though architecture itself were a moral instrument.
Symbols travel obliquely across the collection. Water and light register intensities of feeling; mirrors and windows provide compromised self-knowledge; numbers and money signify exchange, debt, and accountability. Dreams bleed into waking thought, not as escape but as argument with the self. Confession appears in different guises: speech to another person, a look that cannot be returned, a final inner assent. Each work turns on a threshold where language falters and the body speaks; at that point, guilt changes from an accusation into an event. The resulting dialogue is aesthetic as much as ethical, carried by cadence, scene construction, and silence.
Enduring Impact & Critical Reception
These novels remain vital because they render the experience of wrongdoing, shame, and responsibility with a precision that still matches contemporary life. Modern institutions reconsider justice and care; individuals navigate alienation, surveillance, and illness; communities debate how to balance compassion with accountability. In that context, Crime and Punishment, Thérèse Raquin, and The Death of Ivan Ilych offer not slogans but situations in which conscience must act. Each proposes a different horizon for change—spiritual reconciliation, the collapse or hardening of desire, the clarity produced by confronting mortality—inviting reflection on what redemption might entail when external verdicts fail to settle the inward case.
Critical reception has long recognized these works as touchstones of psychological fiction and moral inquiry. One is frequently cited as a defining study of crime and conscience in the modern city; another stands as a concentrated portrayal of passion and its consequences within a rigorously observed social environment; the third is often described as a luminous meditation on death and meaning. Together, they helped set terms for discussions of character interiority, narrative perspective, and ethical complexity that continue to guide scholarship and teaching across languages and traditions. Their reputations endure because the problems they stage have not grown smaller.
Their afterlives span theater, film, and other narrative arts, where the pressures of confession, complicity, and mortality translate into image and performance. Legal and philosophical debates borrow examples from these pages to test arguments about free will, responsibility, and reform. Medical and pastoral settings likewise draw on them to think about pain, care, and the meaning of a good death. Even in casual citation, their phrases and scenes have entered everyday speech, signaling not authority but recognition: these works articulate experiences many find otherwise inexpressible, and so they serve as shared reference points in public and private deliberation.
Read together, the three works reorient contemporary conversations about guilt and redemption away from abstraction and toward lived textures. They show how setting, gesture, and time carry moral meaning; they remind us that judgment without attention to interior life becomes mere procedure. Conversely, they demonstrate that introspection without social conscience devolves into self-excuse. The collection therefore is not an answer key but a demanding companion for renewed thinking about justice, mercy, and mortality. By holding competing visions in productive tension, it empowers readers to test their own commitments against narratives that neither console cheaply nor condemn without remainder.
Historical Context
Socio-Political Landscape
These three novels emerge from a Europe unsettled by rapid change. In the Russian Empire and in France, expanding cities, volatile markets, and new institutions reconfigured daily life and moral horizons. Political power remained centralized and paternalistic, yet public discourse widened through courts, newspapers, and civic associations. The anthology’s focus on guilt and redemption answers to that dissonance: formal structures proclaimed order while private consciences strained against inequities and accidents. In Russia, hereditary privilege coexisted uneasily with post-serfdom reforms; in France, a commercial society pressed ambition and desire. The authors respond through portraits of individuals caught between authority, survival, and self-judgment.
Crime and Punishment engages an atmosphere transformed by the Great Reforms of the 1860s. New courts with juries, a professional bar, and rules of evidence promised rational justice, while the police system and poverty-ridden neighborhoods continued to breed suspicion and despair. The promise of legality sharpened the moral stakes of individual action: responsibility, intent, and madness became matters both for inner debate and for public adjudication. That legal modernization coexisted with censorship and surveillance, creating pressures felt by students, officials, and petty traders alike. Dostoyevsky frames his protagonist’s torment within an emerging culture of law that magnifies guilt even as it systematizes punishment.
St. Petersburg, the principal setting of Crime and Punishment, embodied imperial aspiration and social fracture. Vast stone facades and administrative ministries stood beside overcrowded rooms, taverns, and pawnbrokers. Migrants seeking education or work faced precarious housing and irregular employment, while the informal economy stretched along canals and courtyards. Public debates over charity, criminality, and the “dangerous classes” circulated in journals and salons. In such quarters, moral transgression could be rationalized as a forced calculation. The city’s bureaucracy and its constables form a constant backdrop, reminding readers that poverty, pride, and the state intersect intimately in the novel’s exploration of guilt.
The Death of Ivan Ilych unfolds within the Russian service elite, where career advancement, ceremonial propriety, and domestic appearances structure life. The bureaucracy offered status and stability after the upheavals of reform, but also bred spiritual evasions: routine paper-work, polite friendships, and calculated marriages. Judicial institutions and legal rhetoric—newly codified yet still hierarchical—suffuse Tolstoy’s portrait of a conscientious official who measures worth by promotions and decorum. The novel probes how a centralized state organizes not only labor but feeling, hinting that social order can mask existential neglect. Its critique speaks to readers who recognize comfort secured at the price of inner truth.
In France, Thérèse Raquin appears at the crest of an urban-commercial surge. The consolidation of retail districts, expansion of rail connections, and proliferation of gaslit leisure sites encouraged new forms of desire and spectacle. Moral anxieties gathered around crowded streets and cramped dwellings, where working shopkeepers navigated tight margins and long hours. The press sensationalized crimes of passion, and the courts experimented with modern notions of culpability and mitigation. Medical language entered ordinary conversation, translating emotion into appetite and pathology. Zola situates his protagonists in a shop and in dim arcades, where economic calculation and physical craving jostle under respectable surfaces.
Religious authority and secular institutions competed and overlapped across these settings. In Russia, church ritual marked the life cycle and flavored assumptions about suffering and repentance, even as modern law and medicine claimed jurisdiction over the body and mind. In France, anticlerical currents contended with persistent devotional practices, especially among small shopkeepers and workers. The moral vocabulary of sin, grace, and absolution thus met the language of statistics, diagnosis, and rehabilitation. Tolstoy questions whether ritual can console without moral awakening; Dostoyevsky tests the reach of reason against a soul’s need; Zola inspects desire as an organism, largely indifferent to doctrine.
The mid-century decades were marked by recent foreign conflicts, peasant unrest, and strikes that widened anxieties about order and responsibility. Prisons, workhouses, and hospitals became laboratories for social policy, generating debates about deterrence versus cure. The circulation of translations and émigré journalism carried these debates between Russia and France, shaping an international readership alert to the moral costs of modernization. While authorities defended hierarchy and stability, urban publics consumed crime reports and courtroom dramas, turning guilt into spectacle. The novels gathered here both answer and resist that spectacle, repositioning guilt as an intimate reckoning and redemption as a contested possibility.
Intellectual & Aesthetic Currents
These novels were composed amid a struggle between materialist explanation and spiritual introspection. New disciplines promised to map the mind: experimental psychology, psychiatry, and early criminology sought lawful patterns in behavior, while physiology described nerves and brain as mechanisms. Courts increasingly admitted forensic evidence; newspapers translated expert testimony into public fascination. Against that chorus of causality, the authors test inner freedom, conscience, and repentance. The tension plays out formally: detailed observation suggests determinism, yet the narrative arcs insist on moral choice. The anthology thus records a moment when scientific confidence met the stubborn opacity of human motives.
In aesthetic terms, the collection stages a dialogue between psychological realism and Naturalism. Crime and Punishment advances an intense, inward realism that lets fevered logic, confession, and dream interpenetrate crowded streets. The Death of Ivan Ilych practices lucid, pared prose that strips social veneers to expose existential fear and the possibility of moral change. Thérèse Raquin exemplifies Naturalism’s claim to experiment through narrative: characters are observed under pressure, with heredity and environment acting as variables. Together they frame a spectrum—from inner self-scrutiny to quasi-scientific observation—that defined late nineteenth-century fiction’s most urgent innovations.
The period’s legal and medical debates fed directly into narrative method. Questions about responsibility under mental disturbance, the role of confession versus interrogation, and the value of hard labor or rehabilitation became everyday topics. Fiction could stage hypothetical cases with a fullness no courtroom allowed, depicting pressure, remorse, and rationalization across time. Dostoyevsky explores how ideas of utility and greatness might distort conscience; Tolstoy’s dying official translates legalistic self-accounting into an existential audit; Zola charts craving through clinical metaphors. The result is a shared inquiry into whether guilt is a juridical status, a physiological event, or a spiritual awakening.
Within this shared field, each author leans toward a distinct solution. Tolstoy adopts an austere aesthetic, seeking ethical clarity through simple surfaces that gradually disclose terror and grace. His legal-world setting heightens the irony of procedural order confronting ultimate meaning. Dostoyevsky embraces dissonance: arguments, dreams, and chance encounters create a chamber of echoes in which a conscience bargains for relief. Zola orchestrates sensations and symptoms, inviting readers to treat conduct as an experiment observed under a lantern’s glare. These choices reflect divergent judgments about where truth resides—in law, psyche, or physiology—and how art might make it visible.
Publishing conditions also shaped these works. Crime and Punishment first reached readers in serial form, its pacing calibrated to cliffhangers, public reaction, and editorial constraints. Thérèse Raquin appeared amid polemics about obscenity and morality, with prefaces and reviews becoming part of its argumentative architecture. The Death of Ivan Ilych, concise and controlled, shows the efficiency of shorter forms in an era when journals and collected volumes circulated side by side. Censorship and legal scrutiny hovered over all three, encouraging indirection and irony. The marketplace, the salon, and the courtroom together supplied the theatre in which these narratives first performed.
Legacy & Reassessment Across Time
Initial receptions were polarized yet intense. Readers of Crime and Punishment argued over whether the novel condemned or glamorized intellectual arrogance amid poverty; some praised its psychological acuity, others feared contagion from its feverish reasoning. Thérèse Raquin provoked accusations of cruelty and indecency, countered by claims of scientific courage and moral exposure. The Death of Ivan Ilych was admired for its clarity and feared for its diagnostic severity toward conventional life. Together, these responses established a shared reputation: the books could disturb and console in the same motion, making guilt feel both socially produced and privately inescapable.
Twentieth-century upheavals altered their meanings. Revolutions, world wars, and mass repression forced readers to consider how systems manufacture guilt and how individuals resist or internalize it. Existential philosophy emphasized freedom in extremity, casting choices in Crime and Punishment and The Death of Ivan Ilych as moments of radical decision. Psychoanalytic theory reframed obsession, repression, and confession, deepening interpretations of compulsion in Thérèse Raquin and of denial in Tolstoy’s novella. Legal reforms and abolitionist movements revisited the question of punishment, asking whether redemption belongs to courts, communities, or the solitary conscience exposed by these stories.
In professional arenas, the novels became case studies. Courses in criminology debate moral luck and proportional punishment through Crime and Punishment, while restorative justice advocates test its vision of confession and repair. Medical and nursing curricula turn to The Death of Ivan Ilych for lessons about denial, communication, and the ethics of end-of-life care. Discussions of compulsion and consent in Thérèse Raquin animate seminars in psychiatry and law. These uses do not fix interpretation; they multiply it, revealing how narrative complexity resists tidy protocols. The works endure because they complicate policy with lived ambiguity, refusing either sentimental absolution or cynical determinism.
Adaptations have relocated these narratives across continents and decades. Crime and Punishment has been staged and filmed in settings from congested megacities to quiet college towns, tracking how debt, surveillance, and ambition evolve. Thérèse Raquin inspires transpositions into claustrophobic apartments and neon-lit shops, preserving its sense of bodies trapped by labor and desire. The Death of Ivan Ilych often becomes a minimalist meditation, adapted for hospital wards or corporate offices. Such versions invite feminist, class, and postcolonial rereadings, asking who gets to confess, who is believed, and which communities can afford redemption under contemporary regimes of work and care.
Scholarly debate continues on several fronts. Translators wrestle with registers of legal jargon, slang, and clinical language that calibrate moral tone; choices shift interpretations of irony and remorse. Critics dispute whether Zola’s determinism overwhelms agency, or whether Dostoyevsky’s crises veer into melodrama; others argue that Tolstoy’s simplicity conceals radical formal design. Digital projects trace networks of spaces and motifs—markets, courts, sickrooms—illuminating how environments structure inner drama. The animating question endures: can literature adjudicate guilt more humanely than institutions do, and if so, by what aesthetics? The persistence of these novels suggests that answer remains a living argument.
A Guilt and Redemption Collection – 3 Classic Psychological Fiction Novels
Conscience, Guilt, and Redemption
Determinism, Society, and Psychological Causes
Leo Tolstoy
The Death of Ivan Ilych
I
During an interval in the Melvinski trial in the large building of the Law Courts the members and public prosecutor met in Ivan Egorovich Shebek's private room, where the conversation turned on the celebrated Krasovski case. Fedor Vasilievich warmly maintained that it was not subject to their jurisdiction, Ivan Egorovich maintained the contrary, while Peter Ivanovich, not having entered into the discussion at the start, took no part in it but looked through the Gazette which had just been handed in.
"Gentlemen," he said, "Ivan Ilych has died!"
"You don't say so!"
"Here, read it yourself," replied Peter Ivanovich, handing Fedor Vasilievich the paper still damp from the press. Surrounded by a black border were the words: "Praskovya Fedorovna Golovina, with profound sorrow, informs relatives and friends of the demise of her beloved husband Ivan Ilych Golovin, Member of the Court of Justice, which occurred on February the 4th of this year 1882. the funeral will take place on Friday at one o'clock in the afternoon."
Ivan Ilych had been a colleague of the gentlemen present and was liked by them all. He had been ill for some weeks with an illness said to be incurable. His post had been kept open for him, but there had been conjectures that in case of his death Alexeev might receive his appointment, and that either Vinnikov or Shtabel would succeed Alexeev. So on receiving the news of Ivan Ilych's death the first thought of each of the gentlemen in that private room was of the changes and promotions it might occasion among themselves or their acquaintances.
"I shall be sure to get Shtabel's place or Vinnikov's," thought Fedor Vasilievich. "I was promised that long ago, and the promotion means an extra eight hundred rubles a year for me besides the allowance."
"Now I must apply for my brother-in-law's transfer from Kaluga," thought Peter Ivanovich. "My wife will be very glad, and then she won't be able to say that I never do anything for her relations." "I thought he would never leave his bed again," said Peter Ivanovich aloud. "It's very sad." "But what really was the matter with him?"
"The doctors couldn't say—at least they could, but each of them said something different. When last I saw him I thought he was getting better."
"And I haven't been to see him since the holidays. I always meant to go." "Had he any property?"
"I think his wife had a little—but something quite trifling."
"We shall have to go to see her, but they live so terribly far away."
"Far away from you, you mean. Everything's far away from your place."
"You see, he never can forgive my living on the other side of the river," said Peter Ivanovich, smiling at Shebek. Then, still talking of the distances between different parts of the city, they returned to the Court.
Besides considerations as to the possible transfers and promotions likely to result from Ivan Ilych's death, the mere fact of the death of a near acquaintance aroused, as usual, in all who heard of it the complacent feeling that, "it is he who is dead and not I."
Each one thought or felt, "Well, he's dead but I'm alive!" But the more intimate of Ivan Ilych's acquaintances, his so-called friends, could not help thinking also that they would now have to fulfill the very tiresome demands of propriety by attending the funeral service and paying a visit of condolence to the widow.
Fedor Vasilievich and Peter Ivanovich had been his nearest acquaintances. Peter Ivanovich had studied law with Ivan Ilych and had considered himself to be under obligations to him. Having told his wife at dinner-time of Ivan Ilych's death, and of his conjecture that it might be possible to get her brother transferred to their circuit, Peter Ivanovich sacrificed his usual nap, put on his evening clothes and drove to Ivan Ilych's house.
At the entrance stood a carriage and two cabs. Leaning against the wall in the hall downstairs near the cloakstand was a coffin-lid covered with cloth of gold, ornamented with gold cord and tassels, that had been polished up with metal powder. Two ladies in black were taking off their fur cloaks. Peter Ivanovich recognized one of them as Ivan Ilych's sister, but the other was a stranger to him. His colleague Schwartz was just coming downstairs, but on seeing Peter Ivanovich enter he stopped and winked at him, as if to say: "Ivan Ilych has made a mess of things—not like you and me."
Schwartz's face with his Piccadilly whiskers, and his slim figure in evening dress, had as usual an air of elegant solemnity which contrasted with the playfulness of his character and had a special piquancy here, or so it seemed to Peter Ivanovich.
Peter Ivanovich allowed the ladies to precede him and slowly followed them upstairs. Schwartz did not come down but remained where he was, and Peter Ivanovich understood that he wanted to arrange where they should play bridge that evening. The ladies went upstairs to the widow's room, and Schwartz with seriously compressed lips but a playful look in his eyes, indicated by a twist of his eyebrows the room to the right where the body lay.
Peter Ivanovich, like everyone else on such occasions, entered feeling uncertain what he would have to do. All he knew was that at such times it is always safe to cross oneself. But he was not quite sure whether one should make obseisances while doing so. He therefore adopted a middle course. On entering the room he began crossing himself and made a slight movement resembling a bow. At the same time, as far as the motion of his head and arm allowed, he surveyed the room. Two young men—apparently nephews, one of whom was a high-school pupil—were leaving the room, crossing themselves as they did so. An old woman was standing motionless, and a lady with strangely arched eyebrows was saying something to her in a whisper. A vigorous, resolute Church Reader, in a frock-coat, was reading something in a loud voice with an expression that precluded any contradiction. The butler's assistant, Gerasim, stepping lightly in front of Peter Ivanovich, was strewing something on the floor. Noticing this, Peter Ivanovich was immediately aware of a faint odour of a decomposing body.
The last time he had called on Ivan Ilych, Peter Ivanovich had seen Gerasim in the study. Ivan Ilych had been particularly fond of him and he was performing the duty of a sick nurse. Peter Ivanovich continued to make the sign of the cross slightly inclining his head in an intermediate direction between the coffin, the Reader, and the icons on the table in a corner of the room. Afterwards, when it seemed to him that this movement of his arm in crossing himself had gone on too long, he stopped and began to look at the corpse.
The dead man lay, as dead men always lie, in a specially heavy way, his rigid limbs sunk in the soft cushions of the coffin, with the head forever bowed on the pillow. His yellow waxen brow with bald patches over his sunken temples was thrust up in the way peculiar to the dead, the protruding nose seeming to press on the upper lip. He was much changed and grown even thinner since Peter Ivanovich had last seen him, but, as is always the case with the dead, his face was handsomer and above all more dignified than when he was alive. The expression on the face said that what was necessary had been accomplished, and accomplished rightly. 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 broaden steadily from her shoulders downwards and who had the same extraordinarily arched 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't 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 interrupted by Sokolov, Ivan Ilych's butler, who came to report that the plot in the cemetery that Praskovya Fedorovna had chosen would cost two hundred rubles. She stopped weeping and, looking at Peter Ivanovich with the air of a victim, remarked in French that it was very hard for her. Peter Ivanovich made a silent gesture signifying his full conviction that it must indeed be so. "Please smoke," she said in a magnanimous yet crushed voice, and turned to discuss with Sokolov the price of the plot for the grave.
Peter Ivanovich while lighting his cigarette heard her inquiring very circumstantially into the prices of different plots in the cemetery and finally decide which she would take. when that was done she gave instructions about engaging the choir. Sokolov then left the room. "I look after everything myself," she told Peter Ivanovich, shifting the albums that lay on the table; and noticing that the table was endangered by his cigarette-ash, she immediately passed him an ash-tray, saying as she did so: "I consider it an affectation to say that my grief prevents my attending to practical affairs. On the contrary, if anything can—I won't say console me, but—distract me, it is seeing to everything concerning him." She again took out her handkerchief as if preparing to cry, but suddenly, as if mastering her feeling, she shook herself and began to speak calmly. "But there is something I want to talk to you about."
Peter Ivanovich bowed, keeping control of the springs of the pouffe, which immediately began quivering under him.
"He suffered terribly the last few days."
"Did he?" said Peter Ivanovich.
"Oh, terribly! He screamed unceasingly, not for minutes but for hours. For the last three days he screamed incessantly. It was unendurable. I cannot understand how I bore it; you could hear him three rooms off. Oh, what I have suffered!"
"Is it possible that he was conscious all that time?" asked Peter Ivanovich.
"Yes," she whispered. "To the last moment. He took leave of us a quarter of an hour before he died, and asked us to take Vasya away."
The thought of the suffering of this man he had known so intimately, first as a merry little boy, then as a schoolmate, and later as a grown-up colleague, suddenly struck Peter Ivanovich with horror, despite an unpleasant consciousness of his own and this woman's dissimulation. He again saw that brow, and that nose pressing down on the lip, and felt afraid for himself.
"Three days of frightful suffering and then death! Why, that might suddenly, at any time, happen to me," he thought, and for a moment felt terrified. But—he did not himself know how—the customary reflection at once occurred to him that this had happened to Ivan Ilych and not to him, and that it should not and could not happen to him, and that to think that it could would be yielding to depression which he ought not to do, as Schwartz's expression plainly showed. After which reflection Peter Ivanovich felt reassured, and began to ask with interest about the details of Ivan Ilych's death, as though death was an accident natural to Ivan Ilych but certainly not to himself. After many details of the really dreadful physical sufferings Ivan Ilych had endured (which details he learnt only from the effect those sufferings had produced on Praskoyva Fedorovna's nerves) the widow apparently found it necessary to get to business.
"Oh, Peter Ivanovich, how hard it is! How terribly, terribly hard!" and she again began to weep. Peter Ivanovich sighed and waited for her to finish blowing her nose. When she had done so he said, "Believe me..." and she again began talking and brought out what was evidently her chief concern with him—namely, to question him as to how she could obtain a grant of money from the government on the occasion of her husband's death. She made it appear that she was asking Peter Ivanovich's advice about her pension, but he soon saw that she already knew about that to the minutest detail, more even than he did himself. She knew how much could be got out of the government in consequence of her husband's death, but wanted to find out whether she could not possibly extract something more. Peter Ivanovich tried to think of some means of doing so, but after reflecting for a while and, out of propriety, condemning the government for its niggardliness, he said he thought that nothing more could be got. Then she sighed and evidently began to devise means of getting rid of her visitor. Noticing this, he put out his cigarette, rose, pressed her hand, and went out into the anteroom. In the dining-room where the clock stood that Ivan Ilych had liked so much and had bought at an antique shop, Peter Ivanovich met a priest and a few acquaintances who had come to attend the service, and he recognized Ivan Ilych's daughter, a handsome young woman. She was in black and her slim figure appeared slimmer than ever. She had a gloomy, determined, almost angry expression, and bowed to Peter Ivanovich as though he were in some way to blame. Behind her, with the same offended look, stood a wealthy young man, an examining magistrate, whom Peter Ivanovich also knew and who was her fiance, as he had heard. He bowed mournfully to them and was about to pass into the death-chamber, when from under the stairs appeared the figure of Ivan Ilych's schoolboy son, who was extremely like his father. He seemed a little Ivan Ilych, such as Peter Ivanovich remembered when they studied law together. His tear-stained eyes had in them the look that is seen in the eyes of boys of thirteen or fourteen who are not pure-minded. When he saw Peter Ivanovich he scowled morosely and shamefacedly. Peter Ivanovich nodded to him and entered the death-chamber. The service began: candles, groans, incense, tears, and sobs. Peter Ivanovich stood looking gloomily down at his feet. He did not look once at the dead man, did not yield to any depressing influence, and was one of the first to leave the room. There was no one in the anteroom, but Gerasim darted out of the dead man's room, rummaged with his strong hands among the fur coats to find Peter Ivanovich's and helped him on with it.
"Well, friend Gerasim," said Peter Ivanovich, so as to say something. "It's a sad affair, isn't it?" "It's God's will. We shall all come to it some day," said Gerasim, displaying his teeth—the even white teeth of a healthy peasant—and, like a man in the thick of urgent work, he briskly opened the front door, called the coachman, helped Peter Ivanovich into the sledge, and sprang back to the porch as if in readiness for what he had to do next. Peter Ivanovich found the fresh air particularly pleasant after the smell of incense, the dead body, and carbolic acid.
"Where to sir?" asked the coachman.
"It's not too late even now....I'll call round on Fedor Vasilievich."
He accordingly drove there and found them just finishing the first rubber, so that it was quite convenient for him to cut in.
II
Ivan Ilych's life had been most simple and most ordinary and therefore most terrible. He had been a member of the Court of Justice, and died at the age of forty-five. His father had been an official who after serving in various ministries and departments in Petersburg had made the sort of career which brings men to positions from which by reason of their long service they cannot be dismissed, though they are obviously unfit to hold any responsible position, and for whom therefore posts are specially created, which though fictitious carry salaries of from six to ten thousand rubles that are not fictitious, and in receipt of which they live on to a great age. Such was the Privy Councillor and superfluous member of various superfluous institutions, Ilya Epimovich Golovin.
He had three sons, of whom Ivan Ilych was the second. The eldest son was following in his father's footsteps only in another department, and was already approaching that stage in the service at which a similar sinecure would be reached. The third son was a failure. He had ruined his prospects in a number of positions and was now serving in the railway department. His father and brothers, and still more their wives, not merely disliked meeting him, but avoided remembering his existence unless compelled to do so. His sister had married Baron Greff, a Petersburg official of her father's type. Ivan Ilych was le phénix de la famille as people said. He was neither as cold and formal as his elder brother nor as wild as the younger, but was a happy mean between them—an intelligent, polished, lively, and agreeable man. He had studied with his younger brother at the School of Law, but the latter had failed to complete the course and was expelled when he was in the fifth class. Ivan Ilych finished the course well. Even when he was at the School of Law he was just what he remained for the rest of his life: a capable, cheerful, good-natured, and sociable man, though strict in the fulfillment of what he considered to be his duty: and he considered his duty to be what was so considered by those in authority. Neither as a boy nor as a man was he a toady, but from early youth was by nature attracted to people of high station as a fly is drawn to the light, assimilating their ways and views of life and establishing friendly relations with them. All the enthusiasms of childhood and youth passed without leaving much trace on him; he succumbed to sensuality, to vanity, and latterly among the highest classes to liberalism, but always within limits which his instinct unfailingly indicated to him as correct.
At school he had done things which had formerly seemed to him very horrid and made him feel disgusted with himself when he did them; but when later on he saw that such actions were done by people of good position and that they did not regard them as wrong, he was able not exactly to regard them as right, but to forget about them entirely or not be at all troubled at remembering them. Having graduated from the School of Law and qualified for the tenth rank of the civil service, and having received money from his father for his equipment, Ivan Ilych ordered himself clothes at Scharmer's, the fashionable tailor, hung a medallion inscribed respice finem on his watch-chain, took leave of his professor and the prince who was patron of the school, had a farewell dinner with his comrades at Donon's first-class restaurant, and with his new and fashionable portmanteau, linen, clothes, shaving and other toilet appliances, and a travelling rug, all purchased at the best shops, he set off for one of the provinces where through his father's influence, he had been attached to the governor as an official for special service.
In the province Ivan Ilych soon arranged as easy and agreeable a position for himself as he had had at the School of Law. He performed his official task, made his career, and at the same time amused himself pleasantly and decorously. Occasionally he paid official visits to country districts where he behaved with dignity both to his superiors and inferiors, and performed the duties entrusted to him, which related chiefly to the sectarians, with an exactness and incorruptible honesty of which he could not but feel proud.
In official matters, despite his youth and taste for frivolous gaiety, he was exceedingly reserved, punctilious, and even severe; but in society he was often amusing and witty, and always good-natured, correct in his manner, and bon enfant, as the governor and his wife—with whom he was like one of the family—used to say of him.
In the province he had an affair with a lady who made advances to the elegant young lawyer, and there was also a milliner; and there were carousals with aides-de-camp who visited the district, and after-supper visits to a certain outlying street of doubtful reputation; and there was too some obsequiousness to his chief and even to his chief's wife, but all this was done with such a tone of good breeding that no hard names could be applied to it. It all came under the heading of the French saying: "Il faut que jeunesse se passe." It was all done with clean hands, in clean linen, with French phrases, and above all among people of the best society and consequently with the approval of people of rank.
So Ivan Ilych served for five years and then came a change in his official life. The new and reformed judicial institutions were introduced, and new men were needed. Ivan Ilych became such a new man. He was offered the post of examining magistrate, and he accepted it though the post was in another province and obliged him to give up the connections he had formed and to make new ones. His friends met to give him a send-off; they had a group photograph taken and presented him with a silver cigarette-case, and he set off to his new post.
As examining magistrate Ivan Ilych was just as comme il faut and decorous a man, inspiring general respect and capable of separating his official duties from his private life, as he had been when acting as an official on special service. His duties now as examining magistrate were far more interesting and attractive than before. In his former position it had been pleasant to wear an undress uniform made by Scharmer, and to pass through the crowd of petitioners and officials who were timorously awaiting an audience with the governor, and who envied him as with free and easy gait he went straight into his chief's private room to have a cup of tea and a cigarette with him. But not many people had then been directly dependent on him—only police officials and the sectarians when he went on special missions—and he liked to treat them politely, almost as comrades, as if he were letting them feel that he who had the power to crush them was treating them in this simple, friendly way. There were then but few such people. But now, as an examining magistrate, Ivan Ilych felt that everyone without exception, even the most important and self-satisfied, was in his power, and that he need only write a few words on a sheet of paper with a certain heading, and this or that important, self- satisfied person would be brought before him in the role of an accused person or a witness, and if he did not choose to allow him to sit down, would have to stand before him and answer his questions. Ivan Ilych never abused his power; he tried on the contrary to soften its expression, but the consciousness of it and the possibility of softening its effect, supplied the chief interest and attraction of his office. In his work itself, especially in his examinations, he very soon acquired a method of eliminating all considerations irrelevant to the legal aspect of the case, and reducing even the most complicated case to a form in which it would be presented on paper only in its externals, completely excluding his personal opinion of the matter, while above all observing every prescribed formality. The work was new and Ivan Ilych was one of the first men to apply the new Code of 1864.
On taking up the post of examining magistrate in a new town, he made new acquaintances and connections, placed himself on a new footing and assumed a somewhat different tone. He took up an attitude of rather dignified aloofness towards the provincial authorities, but picked out the best circle of legal gentlemen and wealthy gentry living in the town and assumed a tone of slight dissatisfaction with the government, of moderate liberalism, and of enlightened citizenship. At the same time, without at all altering the elegance of his toilet, he ceased shaving his chin and allowed his beard to grow as it pleased.
Ivan Ilych settled down very pleasantly in this new town. The society there, which inclined towards opposition to the governor was friendly, his salary was larger, and he began to play vint, which he found added not a little to the pleasure of life, for he had a capacity for cards, played good-humouredly, and calculated rapidly and astutely, so that he usually won.
After living there for two years he met his future wife, Praskovya Fedorovna Mikhel, who was the most attractive, clever, and brilliant girl of the set in which he moved, and among other amusements and relaxations from his labours as examining magistrate, Ivan Ilych established light and playful relations with her.
While he had been an official on special service he had been accustomed to dance, but now as an examining magistrate it was exceptional for him to do so. If he danced now, he did it as if to show that though he served under the reformed order of things, and had reached the fifth official rank, yet when it came to dancing he could do it better than most people. So at the end of an evening he sometimes danced with Praskovya Fedorovna, and it was chiefly during these dances that he captivated her. She fell in love with him. Ivan Ilych had at first no definite intention of marrying, but when the girl fell in love with him he said to himself: "Really, why shouldn't I marry?"
Praskovya Fedorovna came of a good family, was not bad looking, and had some little property. Ivan Ilych might have aspired to a more brilliant match, but even this was good. He had his salary, and she, he hoped, would have an equal income. She was well connected, and was a sweet, pretty, and thoroughly correct young woman. To say that Ivan Ilych married because he fell in love with Praskovya Fedorovna and found that she sympathized with his views of life would be as incorrect as to say that he married because his social circle approved of the match. He was swayed by both these considerations: the marriage gave him personal satisfaction, and at the same time it was considered the right thing by the most highly placed of his associates. So Ivan Ilych got married.
The preparations for marriage and the beginning of married life, with its conjugal caresses, the new furniture, new crockery, and new linen, were very pleasant until his wife became pregnant—so that Ivan Ilych had begun to think that marriage would not impair the easy, agreeable, gay and always decorous character of his life, approved of by society and regarded by himself as natural, but would even improve it. But from the first months of his wife's pregnancy, something new, unpleasant, depressing, and unseemly, and from which there was no way of escape, unexpectedly showed itself. His wife, without any reason—de gaiete de coeur as Ivan Ilych expressed it to himself—began to disturb the pleasure and propriety of their life. She began to be jealous without any cause, expected him to devote his whole attention to her, found fault with everything, and made coarse and ill-mannered scenes.
At first Ivan Ilych hoped to escape from the unpleasantness of this state of affairs by the same easy and decorous relation to life that had served him heretofore: he tried to ignore his wife's disagreeable moods, continued to live in his usual easy and pleasant way, invited friends to his house for a game of cards, and also tried going out to his club or spending his evenings with friends. But one day his wife began upbraiding him so vigorously, using such coarse words, and continued to abuse him every time he did not fulfill her demands, so resolutely and with such evident determination not to give way till he submitted—that is, till he stayed at home and was bored just as she was—that he became alarmed. He now realized that matrimony—at any rate with Praskovya Fedorovna—was not always conducive to the pleasures and amenities of life, but on the contrary often infringed both comfort and propriety, and that he must therefore entrench himself against such infringement. And Ivan Ilych began to seek for means of doing so. His official duties were the one thing that imposed upon Praskovya Fedorovna, and by means of his official work and the duties attached to it he began struggling with his wife to secure his own independence.
With the birth of their child, the attempts to feed it and the various failures in doing so, and with the real and imaginary illnesses of mother and child, in which Ivan Ilych's sympathy was demanded but about which he understood nothing, the need of securing for himself an existence outside his family life became still more imperative.
As his wife grew more irritable and exacting and Ivan Ilych transferred the center of gravity of his life more and more to his official work, so did he grow to like his work better and became more ambitious than before.
Very soon, within a year of his wedding, Ivan Ilych had realized that marriage, though it may add some comforts to life, is in fact a very intricate and difficult affair towards which in order to perform one's duty, that is, to lead a decorous life approved of by society, one must adopt a definite attitude just as towards one's official duties.
And Ivan Ilych evolved such an attitude towards married life. He only required of it those conveniences—dinner at home, housewife, and bed—which it could give him, and above all that propriety of external forms required by public opinion. For the rest he looked for lighthearted pleasure and propriety, and was very thankful when he found them, but if he met with antagonism and querulousness he at once retired into his separate fenced-off world of official duties, where he found satisfaction.
Ivan Ilych was esteemed a good official, and after three years was made Assistant Public Prosecutor. His new duties, their importance, the possibility of indicting and imprisoning anyone he chose, the publicity his speeches received, and the success he had in all these things, made his work still more attractive.
More children came. His wife became more and more querulous and ill-tempered, but the attitude Ivan Ilych had adopted towards his home life rendered him almost impervious to her grumbling. After seven years' service in that town he was transferred to another province as Public Prosecutor. They moved, but were short of money and his wife did not like the place they moved to. Though the salary was higher the cost of living was greater, besides which two of their children died and family life became still more unpleasant for him.
Praskovya Fedorovna blamed her husband for every inconvenience they encountered in their new home. Most of the conversations between husband and wife, especially as to the children's education, led to topics which recalled former disputes, and these disputes were apt to flare up again at any moment. There remained only those rare periods of amorousness which still came to them at times but did not last long. These were islets at which they anchored for a while and then again set out upon that ocean of veiled hostility which showed itself in their aloofness from one another. This aloofness might have grieved Ivan Ilych had he considered that it ought not to exist, but he now regarded the position as normal, and even made it the goal at which he aimed in family life. His aim was to free himself more and more from those unpleasantnesses and to give them a semblance of harmlessness and propriety. He attained this by spending less and less time with his family, and when obliged to be at home he tried to safeguard his position by the presence of outsiders. The chief thing however was that he had his official duties. The whole interest of his life now centered in the official world and that interest absorbed him. The consciousness of his power, being able to ruin anybody he wished to ruin, the importance, even the external dignity of his entry into court, or meetings with his subordinates, his success with superiors and inferiors, and above all his masterly handling of cases, of which he was conscious—all this gave him pleasure and filled his life, together with chats with his colleagues, dinners, and bridge. So that on the whole Ivan Ilych's life continued to flow as he considered it should do—pleasantly and properly.
So things continued for another seven years. His eldest daughter was already sixteen, another child had died, and only one son was left, a schoolboy and a subject of dissension. Ivan Ilych wanted to put him in the School of Law, but to spite him Praskovya Fedorovna entered him at the High School. The daughter had been educated at home and had turned out well: the boy did not learn badly either.
III
So Ivan Ilych lived for seventeen years after his marriage. He was already a Public Prosecutor of long standing, and had declined several proposed transfers while awaiting a more desirable post, when an unanticipated and unpleasant occurrence quite upset the peaceful course of his life. He was expecting to be offered the post of presiding judge in a University town, but Happe somehow came to the front and obtained the appointment instead. Ivan Ilych became irritable, reproached Happe, and quarrelled both with him and with his immediate superiors—who became colder to him and again passed him over when other appointments were made.
This was in 1880, the hardest year of Ivan Ilych's life. It was then that it became evident on the one hand that his salary was insufficient for them to live on, and on the other that he had been forgotten, and not only this, but that what was for him the greatest and most cruel injustice appeared to others a quite ordinary occurrence. Even his father did not consider it his duty to help him. Ivan Ilych felt himself abandoned by everyone, and that they regarded his position with a salary of 3,500 rubles as quite normal and even fortunate. He alone knew that with the consciousness of the injustices done him, with his wife's incessant nagging, and with the debts he had contracted by living beyond his means, his position was far from normal.
In order to save money that summer he obtained leave of absence and went with his wife to live in the country at her brother's place. In the country, without his work, he experienced ennui for the first time in his life, and not only ennui but intolerable depression, and he decided that it was impossible to go on living like that, and that it was necessary to take energetic measures. Having passed a sleepless night pacing up and down the veranda, he decided to go to Petersburg and bestir himself, in order to punish those who had failed to appreciate him and to get transferred to another ministry.
Next day, despite many protests from his wife and her brother, he started for Petersburg with the sole object of obtaining a post with a salary of five thousand rubles a year. He was no longer bent on any particular department, or tendency, or kind of activity. All he now wanted was an appointment to another post with a salary of five thousand rubles, either in the administration, in the banks, with the railways, in one of the Empress Marya's Institutions, or even in the customs—but it had to carry with it a salary of five thousand rubles and be in a ministry other than that in which they had failed to appreciate him.
And this quest of Ivan Ilych's was crowned with remarkable and unexpected success. At Kursk an acquaintance of his, F. I. Ilyin, got into the first-class carriage, sat down beside Ivan Ilych, and told him of a telegram just received by the governor of Kursk announcing that a change was about to take place in the ministry: Peter Ivanovich was to be superseded by Ivan Semonovich.
The proposed change, apart from its significance for Russia, had a special significance for Ivan Ilych, because by bringing forward a new man, Peter Petrovich, and consequently his friend Zachar Ivanovich, it was highly favourable for Ivan Ilych, since Sachar Ivanovich was a friend and colleague of his.
In Moscow this news was confirmed, and on reaching Petersburg Ivan Ilych found Zachar Ivanovich and received a definite promise of an appointment in his former Department of Justice. A week later he telegraphed to his wife: "Zachar in Miller's place. I shall receive appointment on presentation of report."
