The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Other Stories

By Leo Tolstoy

"The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Other Stories" is a collection of short stories that includes "The Invaders" (or "The Raid"),"The Wood-Cutting Expedition," "Three Deaths," "Polikushka," "The Death of Ivan Ilyich," "After the Ball," and "The Forged Coupon." The most famous and superbly written of these is "The Death of Ivan Ilyich," which Tolstoy wrote later in his life. It tells a tale revolving around a man in his 40s who has spent his entire life climbing the social ladder in Russia. Barely tolerant of his wife and generally indifferent to the other people around him, Ivan has a minor accident hanging curtains in a new apartment that proves to be a terminal injury. As his life slowly and painfully spirals inexorably toward death, Ivan struggles immensely against what he perceives to be an unfair fate. Only in the end does he see how he might have lived differently and authentically. In this and the other short stories by Tolstoy, the themes of loss and death are deeply explored and developed by a brilliant and immortalized writer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Digireads.com Publishing
• Release date: Jan 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9781420936858

Leo Tolstoy

Leo Tolstoy (1828-1910) was a Russian author of novels, short stories, novellas, plays, and philosophical essays. He was born into an aristocratic family and served as an officer in the Russian military during the Crimean War before embarking on a career as a writer and activist. Tolstoy’s experience in war, combined with his interpretation of the teachings of Jesus, led him to devote his life and work to the cause of pacifism. In addition to such fictional works as War and Peace (1869), Anna Karenina (1877), and The Death of Ivan Ilyich (1886), Tolstoy wrote The Kingdom of God is Within You (1893), a philosophical treatise on nonviolent resistance which had a profound impact on Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr. He is regarded today not only as one of the greatest writers of all time, but as a gifted and passionate political figure and public intellectual whose work transcends Russian history and literature alike.

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THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYICH AND OTHER STORIES

BY LEO TOLSTOY

FROM THE TRANSLATIONS OF

BENJAMIN R. TUCKER AND

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE

A Digireads.com Book

Digireads.com Publishing

Print ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-3357-4

Ebook ISBN 13: 978-1-4209-3685-8

This edition copyright © 2011

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CONTENTS

THE INVADERS (The Raid) – Translated by Nathan Haskell Dole

THE WOOD-CUTTING EXPEDITION – Translated by Nathan Haskell Dole.

THREE DEATHS – Translated by Nathan Haskell Dole

POLIKUSHKA – Translated by Benjamin R. Tucker

THE DEATH OF IVAN ILYICH – Translated by Nathan Haskell Dole

AFTER THE DANCE – Edited by Charles T. H. Wright

THE FORGED COUPON – Edited by Charles T. H. Wright

THE INVADERS{1}

A VOLUNTEER'S NARRATIVE.

I.

On the 24th of July, Captain Khlopof in epaulets and cap—a style of dress in which I had not seen him since my arrival in the Caucasus—entered the low door of my earth-hut.

I'm just from the colonel's, he said in reply to my questioning look; to-morrow our battalion is to move.

Where? I asked.

To N——. The troops have been ordered to muster at that place.

And probably some expedition will be made from there?

Of course.

In what direction, think you?

I don't think. I tell you all I know. Last night a Tatar from the general came galloping up,—brought orders for the battalion to march, taking two days' rations. But whither, why, how long, isn't for them to ask. Orders are to go—that's enough.

Still, if they are going to take only two days' rations, it's likely the army will not stay longer.

That's no argument at all.

And how is that? I asked with astonishment.

This is the way of it: When they went against Dargi they took a week's rations, but they spent almost a month.

And can I go with you? I asked, after a short silence.

"Yes, you can go; but my advice is—better not. Why run the risk?"

No, allow me to disregard your advice. I have been spending a whole month here for this very purpose,—of having a chance to see action,—and you want me to let it have the go-by!

All right, come with us; only isn't it true that it would be better for you to stay behind? You could wait for us here, you could go hunting. But as to us,—God knows what will become of us! . . . And that would be first-rate, he said in such a convincing tone that it seemed to me at the first moment that it would actually be first-rate. Nevertheless, I said resolutely that I wouldn't stay behind for any thing.

And what have you to see there? said the captain, still trying to dissuade me. If you want to learn how battles are fought, read Mikhailovski Danilevski's 'Description of War,' a charming book; there it's all admirably described,—where every corps stands, and how battles are fought.

On the contrary, that does not interest me, I replied.

"Well, now, how is this? It simply means that you want to see how men kill each other, doesn't it? . . . Here in 1832 there was a man like yourself, not in the regular service,—a Spaniard, I think he was. He went on two expeditions with us, . . . in a blue mantle or something of the sort, and so the young fellow was killed. Here, bátiushka, one is not surprised at any thing."

Ashamed as I was at the captain's manifest disapprobation of my project, I did not attempt to argue him down.

Well, he was brave, wasn't he?

God knows as to that. He always used to ride at the front. Wherever there was firing, there he was.

So he must have been brave, then, said I.

No, that doesn't signify bravery,—his putting himself where he wasn't called.

What do you call bravery, then?

Bravery, bravery? repeated the captain with the expression of a man to whom such a question presents itself for the first time. A brave man is one who conducts himself as he ought, said he after a brief consideration.

I remembered that Plato defined bravery as the knowledge of what one ought and what one ought not to fear; and in spite of the triteness and obscurity in the terminology of the captain's definition, I thought that the fundamental conception of both was not so unlike as might at first sight appear, and that the captain's definition was even more correct than the Greek philosopher's, for the reason, that, if he could have expressed himself as Plato did, he would in all probability have said that that man is brave who fears only what he ought to fear and not what there is no need of fearing.

I was anxious to explain my thought to the captain.

Yes, I said, "it seems to me that in every peril there is an alternative, and the alternative adopted under the influence of, say, the sentiment of duty, is bravery, but the alternative adopted under the influence of a lower sentiment is cowardice; therefore it is impossible to call a man brave who risks his life out of vanity or curiosity or greediness, and, vice versa, the man who under the influence of the virtuous sentiment of family obligation, or simply from conviction, avoids peril, cannot be called a coward."

The captain looked at me with a queer sort of expression while I was talking.

Well, now, I don't know how to reason this out with you, said he, filling his pipe, but we have with us a junker, and he likes to philosophize. You talk with him. He also writes poetry.

I had only become intimate with the captain in the Caucasus, but I had known him before in Russia. His mother, Márya Ivánovna Khlópova, the owner of a small landed estate, lives about two versts{2} from my home. Before I went to the Caucasus I visited her. The old lady was greatly delighted that I was going to see her Páshenka{3} (thus she called the old gray-haired captain), and, like a living letter, could tell him about her circumstances and give him a little message. Having made me eat my fill of a glorious pie and roast chicken, Márya Ivánovna went to her sleeping-room and came back with a rather large black relic-bag,{4} to which was attached some kind of silken ribbon.

Here is this image of our Mother-Intercessor from the September festival, she said, kissing the picture of the divine Mother attached to the cross, and putting it into my hand. "Please give it to him, bátiushka, You see, when he went to the Kaikaz, I had a Te Deum sung, and made a vow, that if he should be safe and sound, I would order this image of the divine Mother. And here it is seventeen years that the Mátushka and the saints have had him in their keeping; not once has he been wounded, and what battles he has been in, as it seems! . . . When Mikháilo, who was with him, told me about it, my hair actually stood on end. You see, all that I know about him I have to hear from others; he never writes me any thing about his doings, my dove,{5}—he is afraid of frightening me."

 (I had already heard in the Caucasus, but not from the captain himself, that he had been severely wounded four times; and, as was to be expected, he had not written his mother about his wounds any more than about his campaigns.)

Now let him wear this holy image, she continued. "I bless him with it. The most holy Intercessor protect him, especially in battle may she always look after him! And so tell him, my dear friend,{6} that thy mother gave thee this message."

I promised faithfully to fulfil her commission.

I know you will be fond of him, of my Páshenka, the old lady continued,—he is such a splendid fellow! Would you believe me, not a year goes by without his sending me money, and he also helps Annushka my daughter, and all from his wages alone. Truly I shall always thank God, she concluded with tears in her eyes, that he has given me such a child.

Does he write you often? I asked.

"Rarely, bátiushka,—not more than once a year; and sometimes when he sends money he writes a little word, and sometimes he doesn't. 'If I don't write you, mámenka,' he says, 'it means that I'm alive and well; but if any thing should happen,—which God forbid,—then they will write you for me.'"

When I gave the captain his mother's gift (it was in my room), he asked me for some wrapping-paper, carefully tied it up, and put it away. I gave him many details of his mother's life: the captain was silent. When I had finished, he went into a corner, and took a very long time in filling his pipe.

Yes, she's a fine old lady, said he from the corner, in a rather choked voice: God grant that we may meet again!

Great love and grief were expressed in these simple words.

Why do you serve here? I asked.

Have to serve, he replied with decision. And double pay means a good deal for our brother, who is a poor man.

The captain lived economically; he did not play cards, he rarely drank to excess, and he smoked ordinary tobacco, which from some inexplicable reason he did not call by its usual name,{7} but sambrotalicheski tabák. The captain had pleased me even before this. He had one of those simple, calm Russian faces, and looked you straight in the eye agreeably and easily. But after this conversation I felt a genuine respect for him.

II.

At four o'clock on the morning of the next day, the captain came riding up to my door. He had on an old well-worn coat without epaulets, wide Lesghian trousers, a round white Circassian cap, with drooping lambskin dyed yellow, and an ugly-looking Asiatic sabre across his shoulder. The little white horse{8} on which he rode came with head down, and mincing gait, and kept switching his slender tail. In spite of the fact that the good captain's figure was neither very warlike nor very handsome, yet there was in it such an expression of good-will toward every one around him, that it inspired involuntary respect.

I did not keep him waiting a minute, but immediately mounted, and we rode off together from the gate of the fortress.

The battalion was already two hundred sazhens{9} ahead of us, and had the appearance of some black, solid body in motion. It was possible to make out that it was infantry, only from the circumstance that while the bayonets appeared like long, dense needles, occasionally there came to the ear the sounds of a soldier's song, the drum, and a charming tenor, the leader of the sixth company,—a song which I had more than once enjoyed at the fort.

The road ran through the midst of a deep, wide ravine, or balka as it is called in the Caucasian dialect, along the banks of a small river, which at this time was playing, that is, was having a freshet. Flocks of wild pigeons hovered around it, now settling on the rocky shore, now wheeling about in mid-air in swift circles and disappearing from sight.

The sun was not yet visible, but the summit of the balka on the right began to grow luminous. The gray and white colored crags, the greenish-yellow moss wet with dew, the clumps of different kinds of wild thorn,{10} stood out extraordinarily distinct and rotund in the pellucid golden light of the sunrise.

On the other hand, the ravine, hidden in thick mist which rolled up like smoke in varying volumes, was damp, and dark, and gave the impression of an indistinguishable mixture of colors—pale lilac, almost purple, dark green, and white.

Directly in front of us, against the dark blue of the horizon, with startling distinctness appeared the dazzling white, silent masses of the snow-capped mountains with their marvellous shadows and outlines exquisite even in the smallest details. Crickets, grasshoppers, and a thousand other insects, were awake in the tall grass, and filled the air with their sharp, incessant clatter: it seemed as though a numberless multitude of tiny bells were jingling in our very ears. The atmosphere was alive with waters, with foliage, with mist; in a word, had all the life of a beautiful early summer morning.

The captain struck a light, and began to puff at his pipe; the fragrance of sambrotalicheski tabák and of the punk struck me as extremely pleasant.

We rode along the side of the road so as to overtake the infantry as quickly as possible. The captain seemed more serious than usual; he did not take his Daghestan pipe from his mouth, and at every step he dug his heels into his horse's legs as the little beast, capering from one side to the other, laid out a scarcely noticeable dark green track through the damp, tall grass. Up from under his very feet, with its shrill cry,{11} and that drumming of the wings that is so sure to startle the huntsman in spite of himself, flew the pheasant, and slowly winged its flight on high. The captain paid him not the slightest attention.

We had almost overtaken the battalion, when behind us was heard the sound of a galloping horse, and in an instant there rode by us a very handsome young fellow in an officer's coat, and a tall white Circassian cap.{12} As he caught up with us he smiled, bowed to the captain, and waved his whip. . . . I only had time to notice that he sat in the saddle and held, the bridle with peculiar grace, and that he had beautiful dark eyes, a finely cut nose, and a mustache just beginning to grow. I was particularly attracted by the way in which he could not help smiling, as if to impress it upon us that we were friends of his. If by nothing else than his smile, one would have known that he was still very young.

And now where is he going? grumbled the captain with a look of dissatisfaction, not taking his pipe from his mouth.

Who is that? I asked.

Ensign Alánin, a subaltern officer of my company. . . . Only last month he came from the School of Cadets.

This is the first time that he is going into action, I suppose? said I.

And so he is overjoyed, replied the captain thoughtfully, shaking his head; it's youth.

And why shouldn't he be glad? I can see that for a young officer this must be very interesting.

The captain said nothing for two minutes.

And that's why I say 'it's youth,' he continued in a deep tone. What is there to rejoice in, when there's nothing to see? Here when one goes often, one doesn't find any pleasure in it. Here, let us suppose there are twenty of us officers going: some of us will be either killed or wounded; that's likely. Today my turn, to-morrow his, the next day somebody else's. So what is there to rejoice in?

III.

Scarcely had the bright sun risen above the mountains, and begun to shine into the valley where we were riding, when the undulating clouds of mist scattered, and it grew warm. The soldiers with guns and knapsacks on their backs marched slowly along the dusty road. In the ranks were frequently heard Malo-Russian dialogues and laughter. A few old soldiers in white linen coats—for the most part non-commissioned officers—marched along the roadside with their pipes, engaged in earnest conversation. The triple rows of heavily laden wagons advanced step by step, and raised a thick dust, which hung motionless.

The mounted officers rode in advance; a few jig-gited, as they say in the Caucasus;{13} that is, applying the whip to their horses, they spurred them on to make four or five leaps, and then reined them in suddenly, pulling the head back. Others listened to the song-singers, who notwithstanding the heat and the oppressive air indefatigably tuned up one song after another.

A hundred sazhens in advance of the infantry, on a great white horse, surrounded by mounted Tatars, rode a tall, handsome officer in Asiatic costume, known to the regiment as a man of reckless valor, one who cuts any one straight in the eyes!{14} He wore a black Tatar half-coat or beshmét trimmed with silver braid, similar trousers, new leggings{15} closely laced with chirazui as they call galloons in the Caucasus, and a tall, yellow Cherkessian cap worn jauntily on the back of his head. On his breast and back were silver lacings. His powder-flask and pistol were hung at his back; another pistol, and a dagger in a silver sheath, depended from his belt. Besides all this was buckled on a sabre in a red morocco sheath adorned with silver; and over the shoulder hung his musket in a black case.

By his garb, his carriage, his manner, and indeed by every motion, it was manifest that his ambition was to ape the Tatars. He was just saying something, in a language that I did not understand, to the Tatars who rode with him; but from the doubtful, mocking glances which these latter gave each other, I came to the conclusion that they did not understand him either.

This was one of our young officers of the dare-devil, jigit order, who get themselves up a la Marlinski and Lermontof. These men look upon the Caucasus, as it were, through the prism of the Heroes of our Time, Mulla-Nurof{16} and others, and in all their activities are directed not by their own inclinations but by the example of these models.

This lieutenant, for instance, was very likely fond of the society of well-bred women and men of importance, generals, colonels, adjutants,—I may even go so far as to believe that he was very fond of this society, because he was in the highest degree vainglorious,—but he considered it his unfailing duty to show his rough side to all important people, although he offended them always more or less; and when any lady made her appearance at the fortress, then he considered it his duty to ride by her windows with his cronies, or kunaki as they are called in the dialect of the Caucasus, dressed in a red shirt and nothing but chuviaki on his bare legs, and shouting and swearing at the top of his voice—but all this not only with the desire to insult her, but also to show her what handsome white legs he had, and how easy it would be to fall in love with him if only he himself were willing. Or he often went by at night with two or three friendly Tatars to the mountains into ambush by the road so as to take by surprise and kill hostile Tatars coming along; and though more than once his heart told him that there was nothing brave in such a deed, yet he felt himself under obligations to inflict suffering upon people in whom he thought that he was disappointed, and whom he affected to hate and despise. He always carried two things,—an immense holy image around his neck, and a dagger above his shirt. He never took them off, but even went to bed with them. He firmly believed that enemies surrounded him. It was his greatest delight to argue that he was under obligations to wreak vengeance on some one and wash out insults in blood. He was persuaded that spite, vengeance, and hatred of the human race were the highest and most poetical of feelings. But his mistress,—a Circassian girl of course,—whom I happened afterwards to meet, said that he was the mildest and gentlest of men, and that every evening he wrote in his gloomy diary, cast up his accounts on ruled paper, and got on his knees to say his prayers. And how much suffering he endured, to seem to himself only what he desired to be, because his comrades and the soldiers could not comprehend him as he desired!

Once, in one of his nocturnal expeditions with his Tatar friends, it happened that he put a bullet into the leg of a hostile Tchetchenets, and took him prisoner. This Tchetchenets for seven weeks thereafter lived with the lieutenant; the lieutenant dressed his wound, waited on him as though he were his nearest friend, and when he was cured sent him home with gifts. Afterwards, during an expedition when the lieutenant was retreating from the post, having been repulsed by the enemy, he heard some one call him by name, and his wounded kunák strode out from among the hostile Tatars, and by signs asked him to do the same. The lieutenant went to meet his kunák, and shook hands with him. The mountaineers stood at some little distance, and refrained from firing; but, as soon as the lieutenant turned his horse to go back, several shot at him, and one bullet grazed the small of his back.

Another time I myself saw a fire break out by night in the fortress, and two companies of soldiers were detailed to put it out. Amid the crowd, lighted up by the ruddy glare of the fire, suddenly appeared the tall form of the man on a coal-black horse. He forced his way through the crowd, and rode straight to the fire. As soon as he came near, the lieutenant leaped from his horse, and hastened into the house, which was all in flames on one side. At the end of five minutes he emerged with singed hair and burned sleeves, carrying in his arms two doves which he had rescued from the flames.

His name was Rosenkranz; but he often spoke of his ancestry, traced it back to the Varangians, and clearly showed that he and his forefathers were genuine Russians.

IV.

The sun had travelled half its course, and was pouring down through the glowing atmosphere its fierce rays upon the parched earth. The dark blue sky was absolutely clear; only the bases of the snow-capped mountains began to clothe themselves in pale lilac clouds. The motionless atmosphere seemed to be full of some impalpable dust; it became intolerably hot.

When the army came to a small brook that had overflowed half the road, a halt was called. The soldiers, stacking their arms, plunged into the stream. The commander of the battalion sat down in the shade, on a drum, and, showing by his broad countenance the degree of his rank, made ready, in company with a few officers, to take lunch. The captain lay on the grass under the company's transport-wagon; the gallant lieutenant Rosenkranz and some other young officers, spreading out their Caucasian mantles, or burki, threw themselves down, and began to carouse as was manifest by the flasks and bottles scattered around them and by the extraordinary liveliness of their singers, who, standing in a half-circle behind them, gave an accompaniment to the Caucasian dance-song sung by a Lesghian girl:—

Shamyl resolved to make a league

In the years gone by,

Traï-raï, rattat-taï,

In the years gone by.

Among these officers was also the young ensign who had passed us in the morning. He was very entertaining: his eyes gleamed, his tongue never grew weary. He wanted to greet every one, and show his good-will to them all. Poor lad! he did not know that in acting this way he might be ridiculous, that his frankness and the gentleness which he showed to every one might win for him, not the love which he so much desired, but ridicule; he did not know this either, that when at last, thoroughly heated, he threw himself down on his burka, and leaned his head on his hand, letting his thick black curls fall over, he was a very picture of beauty.

Two officers crouched under a wagon, and were playing cards on a hamper.

I listened with curiosity to the talk of the soldiers and officers, and attentively watched the expression of their faces; but, to tell the truth, in not one could I discover a shadow of that anxiety which I myself felt; jokes, laughter, anecdotes, expressed the universal carelessness, and indifference to the coming peril. How impossible to suppose that it was not fated for some never again to pass that road!

V.

At seven o'clock in the evening, dusty and weary, we entered the wide, fortified gate of Fort N——. The sun was setting, and shed oblique rosy rays over the picturesque batteries and lofty-walled gardens that surrounded the fortress, over the fields yellow for the harvest, and over the white clouds which, gathering around the snow-capped mountains, simulated their shapes, and formed a chain no less wonderful and beauteous. A young half moon, like a translucent cloud, shone above the horizon. In the native village or aul, situated near the gate, a Tatar on the roof of a hut was calling the faithful to prayer. The singers broke out with new zeal and energy.

After resting and making my toilet I set out to call upon an adjutant who was an acquaintance of mine, to ask him to make my intention known to the general. On the way from the suburb where I was quartered, I chanced to see a most unexpected spectacle in the fortress of N——. I was overtaken by a handsome two-seated vehicle in which I saw a stylish bonnet, and heard French spoken. From the open window of the commandant's house came floating the sounds of some Lizanka or Kátenka polka played upon a wretched piano, out of tune. In the tavern which I was passing were sitting a number of clerks over their glasses of wine, with cigarettes in their hands, and I overheard one saying to another,—

Excuse me, but taking politics into consideration, Márya Grigór'yevna is our first lady.

A humpbacked Jew of sickly countenance, dressed in a dilapidated coat, was creeping along with a shrill, broken-down hand-organ; and over the whole suburb echoed the sounds of the finale of Lucia.

Two women in rustling dresses, with silk kerchiefs around their necks and bright-colored sun-shades in their hands, hastened past me on the plank sidewalk. Two girls, one in pink, the other in a blue dress, with uncovered heads, were standing on the terrace of a small house, and affectedly laughing with the obvious intention of attracting the notice of some passing officers. Officers in new coats, white gloves, and glistening epaulets, were parading up and down the streets and boulevards.

I found my acquaintance on the lower floor of the general's house. I had scarcely had time to explain to him my desire, and have his assurance that it could most likely be gratified, when the handsome carriage, which I had before seen, rattled past the window where I was sitting. From the carriage descended a tall, slender man, in uniform of the infantry service and major's epaulets, and came up to the general's rooms.

"Akh! pardon me, I beg of you, said the adjutant, rising from his place: it's absolutely necessary that I tell the general."

Who is it that just came?

Reviews for The Death of Ivan Ilyich and Other Stories

[jakebornheimer · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Bought and read this book over the weekend in Montreal. I was really enchanted by the portrayal of Ivan's decline and death, being so detailed. I really empathize with his struggle to understand death as a thing that truly applies to / effects him. The descriptive quality (as noted by many other readers) of Tolstoy's prose was readily apparent, and I enjoyed it immensely. For sure, this is one that begs to be re-read. I'm especially interested in revisiting the 1st chapter, which is from the perspective of his "friends" who, greedy for his social position, callously snub his funeral and bereaved wife. Highly recommended for those interested in getting into Russian lit since it is so short and sweet.

[pegmcdaniel · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The subject of this short classic is the process of dying and finally, acceptance of death. It's a look into the mind of a dying man who had lived an ordinary life as a high-court judge, had a family and friends, and had not given much thought about dying some day. After being ill for a long time, he realizes that he will never get well again and uses the time to reflect and question how well he lived his life. Was it meaningful? He struggles with redemption and forgiveness as all of us would in his situation.I felt it was depressing about Ivan's agonizing end. The novel was written in 1886 and was easy to read. Leo Tolstoy put lots of meaning into a short novel and gave me plenty to think about.

[kimmr_2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is the story of the life and - as the title indicates - the death of an ordinary man. Ivan Ilych is not a particularly likeable character, nor are his wife and children, nor the colleagues who also appear in the narrative. And yet, the story of Ivan's death is powerful and moving, simply but exquisitely told. Ivan's anger, his fear, his resentment are all unflinchingly described.

I've spent the past few months acutely aware of mortality. A close friend died suddenly a few months ago. Two other women I know well have inoperable cancer. My mother is frail and elderly and every time I see her I know I may never see her alive again. That sense of being surrounded by death in life is something that all of us face as we age.

Talking about dying and death is not something we do much of in our society, even though it is something which occurs every moment of every day. Reading this book, as short as it is, brings the reader face to face with that perience. No matter how ordinary a person, no matter how ordinary their life, each death is unique - an extraordinary experience for the person concerned.

This is not easy reading, but it is something to read and remember.

[lukespapa · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The minute we are born we are compelled to live. Ironically it is also the minute we begin the dying process. While some spend their lives obsessed with (the fear of) dying, others, like Tolstoy’s Ivan Ilyich have never given it a second thought. Death is an inconvenience that happens to others. But when Ivan falls ill at 45 and understands his time on earth is short he tries to reconcile his life’s choices and realize the absurdity and futility of it all. With his mortality looming, despondent and in agony, Ivan has an epiphany; as death finally announces itself to him, it then ceased to exist. Now that’s a simple but powerful concept worth contemplating. A masterpiece novella, this one is worth everybody’s time and consideration.

[ohernaes · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Think over whether you live the life that you want to live or simply do the "correct" things unquestionably.

[amelish · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Oh non-Gothic, gothic horror. Oh sweaty relief. (ew)

I wish I'd been a writing sort in high school--the books I read then were arguably more interesting than the ones I read now, brief Michael Crichton preoccupation excepted.

[shanaqui_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Normally a book that looks this closely at death would, I'm afraid, terrify me. I have enough anxiety already, I don't need to think about the "dragging pain" in Ivan Ilyich's side, which -- being a doctor's daughter -- I could diagnose fairly easily as some kind of cancer, quite probably cancer of the gallbladder. That "dragging pain" is the giveaway to me, because it was in all the descriptions of the sort of pain cancer of the gallbladder causes. I know all about that because of the anxious period before I was diagnosed with gallstones. Anyway, it occurs to me that because Tolstoy never uses a specific word, never tells you specifically what is wrong with Ivan -- in fact, Ivan himself never knows -- it can be whatever you fear. For me, cancer is the obvious one.

And okay, yes, this book did terrify me a bit, but I think in the way that it would terrify anybody. Imagining lying at the point of death and questioning if your life was of any use, if you did anything that really made you happy, if you did anything that really made you satisfied...

This is nothing like Tolstoy's other books. There's a narrow focus on a single character, and -- in this translation at least -- the words are simple and directly to the point. Tolstoy's gift for a slightly satirical tone is in evidence. Ivan is not a particularly good man, but he's very much an everyman -- you will see yourself in Ivan, unless you really do have an ego so big you can't even be brought to imagine facing your own death.

[palaverofbirds · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I wish I'd gotten one of the many collections of Tolstoy's novellas rather than just The Death... I would recommend you do so yourself if you're interested in this great Russian writer.

[bunwat_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This is why Tolstoy is one of the greats. Because his work reads on multiple levels, and because his characters are never caricatures just there to hold a spear or prop up some scenery.

On one level this is the story of the life and death of a not particularly likeable functionary. On another its an indictment of a particular society in a particular time, in which isolation from and indifference to others are the price of privilege and comfort and how a man loses himself in that devil's bargain. On another its a story of how we all tend to lose sight of the important things in life in the process of living it. On another it is the story of how even a not particularly likeable functionary is still a human being, with the fears and feelings and loves and losses that we all share as part of our common humanity.

So much going on in such a small space.

[lilywren · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This is my first venture into the land of Tolstoy. As with Camus, I was intimidated by the name 'Tolstoy' and, as with Camus, this should never have been so. The Death of Ivan Ilych is a rather poignant, striking novella written following a time where it is said Tolstoy went through a religious conversion. The book provokes thoughts around mortality and provides us with a harsh lesson in 'live life well'.Despite the book title, the story focusses upon the life which Ivan Ilych felt he had lived and the process of dying he goes through rather than the death itself. It is striking, emotive and, at times, frighteningly remorseful. It's that 3am in the morning kind of stuff. If you're the kind of person who lies in bed agonising over your mortality, that funny twitch in your arm, pain in your chest or asking yourself "Why is John's car far superior to mine?" "Is the cat ill running around like that or just being a cat?" then the themes running through this wonderful novella will certainly chime.Ivan Ilych is a well-respected judge who receives an unspecified diagnosis but deduces that he is terminally ill. As his condition deteriorates, we witness Ivan Ilych struggling to come to terms with his condition and the fact that he is dying. He begins to look back on his life with some sadness and regret."Lately in that loneliness in which he found himself....in these late days of horrific loneliness Ivan Ilych lived only by his memories of the past. One after another he imagined scenes from his life. He would always begin with the most recent and proceed to the earliest, to his childhood, and settle there." p.92Such memories proved painful to bear. On looking back through his life, Ivan Ilych realises that as he grew older, more removed from the innocence of childhood, as the worries of life, his career and family took hold, the more superficial and shallow his life had become."...the further back he looked, the more life there had been in him; both the more sweetness to life, and the more of life itself....There had been one point of light far back at the start of everything, and ever since everything had gotten blacker and blacker, and moved quicker and quicker." p.93Ivan Ilych starts to look on his friends, colleagues and wife with the same feelings of bitterness, regret and hate which he has for life and himself. The only moments of tenderness and understanding he finds are in Gerasim, the butler's assistant, who is able to emphasise and understand his needs as Ivan Ilych views others around him as looking inwards to their own needs."His marriage...so accidental, and such a disappointment, with his wife's bad breath, and her sensuality, and their hypocrisy. His moribound professional life, the obession with money...The further on in years the more deadening it became. In perfectly measured steps I went downhill imagining I was on my way up.... In public opinion I was on my way up, and the whole time my life was slipping away from under me....and now it's all over, and it's time to die."p.88The inevitability of death pervades the book and feeds into this readers mortality. As Ivan Ilych struggles to come to terms with his life, dying and death so the reader is also carried along and forced to ask questions of his/her own mortality and life. The fact that Ivan Ilych is terminally ill is, for want of a better word, irrelevant. Death is inevitable - we are all dying, we will all face death and this is the only thing we can be sure about in life. The important lesson we should learn is how to spend our time wisely as we move towards this inevitability.I'm so glad that this is my first experience of reading Tolstoy. It's a quick, compelling read with so much feeling and emotion packed into the 104 pages of this edition. It is without doubt a fantastic masterclass in writing where we are witness to emotions being laid bare for all to see.

[marsap_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

The story begins with three friends and colleagues of a man named Ivan Ilych learning of his death. No one seems deeply affected by this, but one of them, Peter Ivanovich, goes to the wake at Ivan's house that night out of a sense of obligation. From there Tolstoy allows us to view Ilych’s life and his subsequent death, a wasted and meaningless life. In addition we become witness to the hypocrisy and the pointlessness of the lives of those around him—except for his young butler—who has an understanding of life and death that Ilych does not. What is particular tragic about this novella is the loneliness and isolation and the feeling that the life that Ilych has lived was meaningless—worse than death. This book allows us to explore how we live our lives, what is important in that life—and what is a “good life.” 3 out of 5 stars.

[misswoodhouse1816 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This classic novella was chosen by my university as their pick for The Big Read- a national reading event in North America sponsored by grants from the Nation Endowment for the Arts. Additionally, it was my first real essay into Russian literature. The novella begins, aptly, with the death of Ivan Ilyich, a 45 year old judge in St. Petersburg. His coworkers receive the news, and though they seem to be saddened by the event they also are very concerned over who will get promoted to where in order to fill Ivan's vacancy. One close friend of Ivan's, Peter, drags himself reluctantly to the funeral, only to be grilled by the not-so-grieving widow over Ivan's pension. He finally escapes, and wanders off to play bridge and rid his mind of the death.After briefly covering his death, the story turns to Ivan's life, which it terms as most simple...and most horrifying. We learn that Ivan skimmed through most of his life in a fairly ordinary way: grow up, go to school, have father set up a career, sow some wild oats, find a girl, marry, raise a family, get promoted, buy a house, decorate the house. It is decorating the house in fact that starts the grim chain of events. In trying to show the drapier how to hang curtains, Ivan slips off the ladder and bumps his side against a knob. Seemingly no real harm is done, just a small bruise.Yet that bruise leads him to his death. First he can't taste and enjoy food, then he can't focus on playing cards. Doctor after doctor try various treatments, but all for naught. He steadily declines, becoming more and more angry, frightened, and unreasonable. As the end draws near, he begins screaming- three days and nights he screams.Finally, he has two hours left to live. He stops screaming, stops fighting, and faces his death. it is in this moment that he finally finds peace- perhaps for the first time in his life. He thinks back and sees that his life was not all that it could or should have been, but he knows he can rectify that. Looking at those around him, he sees the pain that his illness is causing them. As he sees this, he realizes that his pain is hard to feel, that it is no longer dominating his mind and soul. He can no longer see death, and instead Ivan sees the joy and light ahead of him- and so he dies.I really enjoyed the story. Tolstoy masterfully begins by putting you in no doubt of the end so the focus is completely on the journey to death. It is undeniably depressing, but the end has a beauty and serenity to it that justifies the whole novella.

[pingdjip · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Dit verhaal biedt variaties op twee dingen: eerst, hoe Ivan vóór zijn ziekte is, namelijk statusgericht en egoïstisch, en vervolgens hoe hij tijdens zijn ziekte is, namelijk helemaal gemangeld door pijn en wanhoop. De nog gezonde Ivan wil prettig en licht leven, geen aanstoot geven en soepel meedraaien in de sociale wereld. Als zijn huwelijk slecht uitpakt, want zijn vrouw is erg jaloers, sluit hij zich voor haar af en richt zich op zijn werk. Daar geniet hij stiekem, terwijl hij zich welwillend en vriendelijk voordoet, van de macht die hij uitoefent. Echte vrienden heeft hij niet. Als hij stijgt op de sociale ladder, dan stoot hij minder hooggeplaatste kennissen af en zoekt het, ook in zijn vrije tijd, hogerop. Het is jammer dat deze fase van Ivans leven aan het slot min of meer wordt bestempeld als immoreel. Iwan zelf gaat, als hij bijna overlijdt, spijt krijgen van zijn oppervlakkige en zelfzuchtige leven. De manier waarop de onpersoonlijke verteller dit weergeeft suggereert instemming. Waarschijnlijk is deze normatieve invalshoek ook Tolstoj’s eigen visie. Maar de manier waarop hij het uitdrukt is terughoudend, zodat de niet in moraal geïnteresseerde lezer het ook zuiver beschrijvend kan opvatten. En die beschrijvingen tintelen van geloofwaardigheid en laten een prachtige mix zien van sociaal inzicht en emotionele zeggingskracht.De zieke Iwan trekt zich terug in zijn eigen ellende, hij wordt de ultieme navelstaarder. Steeds lezen we welke wending zijn grote geestelijke lijden nu weer neemt en welk aspectje dan weer de overhand krijgt. Heel mooi vond ik de interactie met Gerasim, het eenvoudige knechtje dat Ivan nog een tijdlang, als enige, weet te kalmeren. Ook mooi, hoe Ivans ellende een climax bereikt wanneer hij een enorme schreeuw uitstoot die drie dagen aanhoudt en bij iedereen door merg en been gaat. Naar het einde toe wordt het verhaal claustrofobisch, omdat het exclusief Ivans belevingswereld volgt. In die belevingswereld spelen waarnemingen en interacties nauwelijks meer een rol. Ivan vormt zich geen beeld meer van de wereld om hem heen. De jeugdherinneringen die door zijn hoofd gaan kwamen wat mij betreft niet echt tot leven. Het geheel kreeg daardoor iets reductionistisch in mijn ogen, alsof er maar een klein deel van de menselijke ervaring werd weergegeven. Daarom heeft dit verhaal me minder geraakt en geënthousiasmeerd dan de twee grote romans.

[sirroger · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Ivan Ilyich Golovin is a lawyer and is used to exercising his authority in all technical, proprietary matters of the law when hearing witnesses or defendants in court. His marriage is no longer a happy one, and he avoids familial situations whenever they interfere with his interests. One day, while remodeling his new St. Petersburg apartment before the arrival of his family, he falls from a ladder and sustains a bruise on his side from a window handle. The pain, instead of going away, steadily worsens, and Ivan Ilyich's health deteriorates. The doctors can bring no useful insight, and all around him either insist he'll soon be better or think to themselves that at least it isn't them. Ivan Ilyich, left alone in his repulsive sickness, comes to a realization of the falseness of his life and the lives of everyone he knows. He tries to come to terms with Death and to be prepared when it comes. This book (novella) (story) is not much more than a hundred pages, and is a compelling meditation on death. As we would expect from Tolstoy, however, it is also a criticism of the falseness of society at the time, who refuse to recognize death, but keep on leading their empty lives. In this way it serves as a gentle cautionary tale, provoking the reader to reflect on the state of his own life, to ask himself by what principles he lives, and would he be ready if called to meet Death himself.

[sanctispiritus · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

An excellent, soulful book in the vein of The Trial, and Crime and Punishment. Vladimir Nabokov sums my views of this Novella quite well.In his lectures on Russian Literature Russian born Novelist and critic Vladimir Nabokov argues that, for Tolstoy, a sinful life is (such as Ivan's was), moral death. Therefore death, the return of the soul to God is, for Tolstoy, moral life . To quote Nabokov: "The Tolstoyan formula is: Ivan lived a bad life and since the bad life is nothing but the death of the soul, then Ivan lived a living death; and since beyond death is God's living light, then Ivan died into a new life- Life with a capital L."(Nabokov, Vladimir Vladimirovich: Lectures On Russain Literature pg.237: Harcourt Edition)

[drfp_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Very well written novella by Tolstoy. I was worried after "Anna Karenina" Tolstoy might have lost his way as he became older. However this was much more like the Tolstoy I remember from "War and Peace". A very affecting study of one man's life and death.

[john257hopper · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The thoughts and feelings of a man towards his family and those around him as he gets progressively more ill and is then dying from a wasting disease that sounds like cancer. The opening chapters are quite light-hearted with some ruefully amusing reflections on marriage and attitudes towards ones career, but then the mood becomes much darker and he ends being cynical about his family, seeing them as wishing his death to come sooner so they can be free of the burden of caring for him. A short story but one with a lot to say about the human condition and by no means necessarily tied to its Russian background.

[foggidawn · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This novella opens with a scene reminiscent of the one shown to Scrooge by the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come: Ivan Ilyich has died, and his friends, colleagues, and relations gather for the funeral, but also to advance their own interests. Who will be promoted into his old position? Can his wife wrangle a better pension out of the government? And the weekly card game will go on as scheduled, won’t it? The reader then gets a survey of Ivan’s life, from school days, to married life, through career advancements, and through the illness that eventually leads to his death. There’s a lot of focus on the big questions: why death, and why pain? Did Ivan lead the life he was meant to lead? What if he got it all wrong?One gets the sense that Tolstoy was working through his thoughts on these matters. It would be silly to say that I “enjoyed” this book, but I appreciated it (though, when it comes to the Russians, I’ll take Dostoyevsky over Tolstoy any day). It’s a big subject for such a small volume; I’m glad I finally read it, though I probably won’t read it again.

[thecrow2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The book is nothing more about than the life and death of an ordinary everyday man but Tolstoy was able to write this almost like a poem, beautifully and emotionally.

[quibee · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Wonderful from the start, where a colleague goes to the main character's funeral out of a sense of duty and the small inner dialogues and inner calculations that go on about Iván Ilyich's death, back through the (rather vapid) life of Ivan.Wonderful writing.

[patronus11 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Word I wasn't expecting to read in this bleak masterpiece: pasties. (Hugh Alpin translator, UK's Hesperus Press)

[reneepaule · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Nice. Very nice short story. A lot of self-reflection, which is right up my street, as it were.

[greeniezona · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Disclaimer: This book should not be read the day you find out that your grandfather has passed and you were sent home from work because you were sobbing too hard to be intelligible.

Even if you've already finished half of it and there's not much left.

Even if the first chapter, with work acquaintance friends discussing the death, then one showing up to the house to pay his respects, only to feel disaffected and take off for a card game, is actually pretty darkly funny.

Even if what you've read since then has been a pretty matter-of-fact discussion of Ivan's career and life so far, and hasn't really been sad at all.

Because when the turn comes, with the mysterious illness and the search for a diagnosis and the slow decline at home and the alienation from all those who are well and do not understand, who want to go on with their concerns of life and the living...

Well, it's best to put the book down and come back to it in a few days. Go cuddle with the kids on the couch.

Called a masterpiece on death and dying.

I concur.

[fpdc_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book is the portuguese translation of the russian original Смерть Ивана Ильпча. This is a terrible book. Admittedly a masterpiece, but a terrible work nevertheless: the portrait of a high level judge's life from the moment he discovers he has an incurable illness until his innescapable death. One probably needs a genius of Tolstoy's stature to be able to produce such a portrait, at once engaging and depressing, of human suffering and decay.

[andrewblackman · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A man dies slowly and in great agony. He ponders the meaning of life, and this increases his anguish: even worse than the physical pain of a slow, lingering death is the spiritual anguish of realising he has wasted his life.Tolstoy's main target here is dishonesty and hypocrisy. This is established from the opening scene, when Ivan Ilyich's death is announced, and the reaction of his colleagues is to think about how this will affect their promotion chances, while speaking the usual lines about it being a "sad business" and so on. Even his widow, Praskovya Fiodorovna, is more concerned about herself than her dead husband: after telling a mourner about his three days and nights of incessant screaming, she says "Oh, what I have gone through!" Then she tries to find out how she can increase the government pension money due to her from her husband's death.Then Tolstoy takes us on a quick tour back through Ivan Ilyich's life, showing us that he also participated fully in this dishonesty, concerning himself with appearances and advancement. In every decision, even marriage, he is heavily influenced by what other people will think. With each promotion in his career as a judge, he attains more power and money, but it's never enough. At each stage he simply spends more money imitating people higher in the social scale than he is, and wanting to attain that next level. It's not coincidental that he sustains his fatal injury while climbing a ladder to show a workman exactly how he wants a new curtain to be hung. The novel is saturated with vanity, pettiness and materialism, and they cause Ivan Ilyich's spiritual and physical death.Long before Kubler-Ross, Tolstoy hit on the stages of grief in the character Ivan Ilyich. He goes through denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance, although not always in that order. He often swings violently between the different emotions, depending on his own state of mind and on outside events like a doctor getting his hopes up.The only examples of honesty in the book are in children (both Ivan Ilyich's own childhood and his young son Vassya) and in the character of Gerassim, the butler's assistant. Vassya and Gerassim don't lie to him or see him as an inconvenience - they display simple human affection and love for him.Indeed, love seems to be what Tolstoy is saying life is all about - not romantic love necessarily, but a broader kind of love for your fellow human beings and for God. This is what was missing from Ivan Ilyich's life as he immersed himself in petty advancement and the acquisition of meaningless accoutrements. This deathbed revelation at first causes him great agony as he rages against all the lost time, but in the end it's what allows him to find peace.

[cestovatela · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Leo Tolstoy examines death up close. The story went exactly where I expected it to: old man regrets follies of life on deathbed and turns religious. I felt like this was more a fable or morality tale than a real showcase of human emotions.

[pocketmermaid · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I read this for my World Lit II class. Actually, I read it twice. I read two different translations, because I wasn't satisfied with the one that was in my text book. I found another, and I liked it a lot better. Translation does make a difference.Poor Ivan Ilyich. I wasn't too crazy about this, but I understand its importance in literature. So many writers that came later have been influenced by this little novel! It's amazing how Tolstoy was able to capture all these emotions of human suffering and dying. I gave it three stars because it wasn't really all that life-changing or inspirational to me personally, but I'm glad to have read it. Twice, even!

[johncouke · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Powerful, powerful book about the range of emotions the main character goes through as he learns that his time on earth is dwindling quickly.

[fuzzy_patters · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A Russian judge finds the meaning of life through death and struggles with the reality of his own mortality. I was quite taken aback by the relevance of this work even today. I found myself on numerous occasions pondering whether I have lived my own life the right way and what I can do to live better in the future.

[thebookjunky · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

It is the epitome of a true classic. It is timeless. It is as immediately relevant now as it was when it was published 130 years ago.
Here is the unexamined Life, with its strivings, hypocrisies, bargains, illusions upon illusions, and its screens stopping thoughts of Death.
Then Life is introduced to Death. The screens are relentlessly stripped away, revealing…nothing? “There is no explanation! Agony, death… .What for?”
This is why I read.