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

Dmitry Chukhrai is an internationally exhibited artist based in Moscow. Alexandr Poltorak is the creator of several popular Russian children’s books, magazines, and television programs. Leo Tolstoy is one of the preeminent novelists and humanist philosophers of the 19th century. His world-famous novels War and Peace and Anna Karenina are widely considered classics and his philosophical works and commitment to pacifism, which led to his excommunication from the Russian Orthodox Church, continue to inspire readers more than a century after his death.

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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

Please visit www.digireads.com

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.

[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.

[laphenix · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I liked the concept, but quickly grew bored.

[nospi-2 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Absolute Masterpiece

Beyond my ability to use superlatives how incredible this short book is on delving into the relative importance of life, marriage, family, career, and death.

[charles_tatum_3 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

I felt a lot of trepidation going into my first Russian novel. I have heard, and myself joked for years, about such massive tomes as War and Peace, full of hundreds of characters and thousands of pages. Luckily, and not by choice, I picked up the much shorter The Death of Ivan Ilyich, which clocks in at a reasonable novella link of 99 pages, and the Bantam Classics version has a 34 page introduction by Ronald Blythe. I'm glad I did. While this was published in 1886, it contains observations about life and death that are still relevant over one hundred and thirty years later.Author Leo Tolstoy was going through a bit of a spiritual crisis after his publication of Anna Karenina. He didn't write any fiction for nine years, obsessed with his own mortality as family members around him were dying or ill. His reactions to their passing is mirrored in this novella- the story of a high court judge who is blindsided by a terminal illness, and the selfishness of friends and family who surround him.The opening pages are almost comical, as friends gather to pay their respects after Ivan's death (no spoiler, it's the title of the book!). His widow is fishing for government pension assistance while Ivan's body is lying in domestic state, and other friends are put out because the funeral service is cutting into their nightly card game. There's a meme floating around, asking why someone would keep working for companies that will simply replace you if you died tomorrow, and I was reminded of that as I read the opening pages. We are then given a brief sketch of Ivan's life, and we find out he was actually a decent guy. He works his way up to being a high court judge, fair and balanced and very popular. His home life is a mess. He has two surviving children (two died very young), and a wife he has come to loathe. He is financially strapped, despite his high profile job and higher wages, spending too much money on a suite of apartments to appease the high society he has become a part of. After banging his side, and not getting it treated, he begins feeling pain but works through it. He consults doctors too late, as his injury goes from a simple bruise to a terminal illness, with learned doctors poking and prodding and blaming his excruciating pain on all sorts of ailments. He finds relief in his servant Gerasim, who cleans out his chamber pot and even let's Ivan rest his legs on his shoulders to provide relief. Ivan is drawn to this pure kind soul, as is the reader. Ivan gets worse, and soon he faces the most horrible thing someone dying can face- regret (as a follower of Gary Vaynerchuk, this also speaks to today's society, and again, was written one hundred and thirty years ago).Tolstoy's descriptions and plot are all compact and easy to understand. I was never overwhelmed by his literary style, only having to look up a few words a couple of times. The translation by Lynn Solotaroff is not awkward in the least, I kept forgetting that English was not the original language of the source material. Blythe's introduction does get wordy and bogs down here and there, but it is important to read first before starting the novella. Excellent background about how death was viewed in nineteenth century Russia, and how Tolstoy himself saw his own impending end ('we're all going to die so make the most out of this life' is another cornerstone mantra of Gary Vaynerchuk's inspirational and sometimes foul mouthed videos on YouTube) is covered. Tolstoy himself would eventually die in a rather bizarre way, alone at a train station, where he had fled to escape the materialism that surrounded him, longing for a simpler existence.I'm still weary of reading giant epic Russian novels. I received this book in a batch of classics off of eBay for pennies a tome, but I am glad I read this one. The first book completed of the new year, and already one of the best! I give The Death of Ivan Ilyich (* * * * 1/2) out of five stars.

[siok-76276 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I thought initially that Ivan Ilyich was a hypochondriac. It turns out that he was indeed sick and dying. This is a story of coming to terms with death and finding peace. A classic.

[spoko_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I have to say, I hadn’t expected the cynicism & misanthropy that permeates this book.

[norabelle414 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Ivan Ilyich Golovin lives an unexamined life. He works as a judge, he gets married, he has children. He is always a little unsatisfied with his life, wanting a little more money or a little bigger apartment. He moves up in the world. One day, as he is decorating his new apartment (the decorators were trying to hang a curtain but Ivan knew he could do it a bit better) he hits his side on a piece of furniture. At first he thinks nothing of it, it’s just a bruise. But over the next several weeks the pain gets worse and he sees doctor after doctor to no avail.

I’m not sure I really get this story, but I appreciate it and I always enjoy reading Tolstoy. I believe Tolstoy himself thought about his own death all the time, so I think he wanted to examine what death would be like for someone who never thought about death at all? Ivan Ilyich acts in what I think of as the stereotypical way people now would view people of that time - he gets married because that’s what’s expected of him, is too reserved to have any close friends, and hardly mourns the death of two of his children because has four more. But of course Tolstoy’s other characters love and live and mourn fiercely, so maybe Ivan Ilyich is an outlier among them.
The translation by Lynn Solotaroff is very good, it had the wry humor and vivid language I expect from Tolstoy, despite this being, I think, her only translation of his work. My edition also had an introduction by Ronald Blythe, which was terrible. It bounced back and forth in time and did not do a good job of describing Tolstoy’s state of mind while writing this book, and did too much interpretation for an introduction. Save that for an afterward. It was also way too long. A 35 page introduction for a 100 page story?? No.

[zedseayou · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Only actually read The Death of Ivan Ilyich here: the other stories will have to wait. Nevertheless, my first taste of Tolstoy and I can see why he is acclaimed: he writes with an intensity and purpose that brings out the struggles of Ivan Ilyich as he dies. Particularly compelling was the idea that we lie to ourselves about hope and the inevitability of death, and when this is gone you can only suffer. More thoughts to come, but perhaps I will attempt other Tolstoy at a suitable opportunity.

[mrdickie · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Wonderful how the Russian translates to English and still reads smoothly.

[ionas_7 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

There were many good points in Tolstoy's little story, such as the inadequacy of doctors, our focus on becoming persons of power and importance, and our marrying not for love but material reasons.
I
Ivan Ilyich suffered a lot of pain before he died; but the story was not entitled "the illness" or "the pain" of Ivan Ilyich, but "the death of Ivan Ilyich".

I found it significant that some time before his death Ivan gained the insight that he had not lived his life correctly; he had been focused on irrelevancies and not the real values of life. He had had promptings from his soul, or God, if you will, about things in his life he should have changed, but these he ignored.

He realized now that only his little son whom he had always pitied, loved him. And his servant Gerasim also had compassion for him, but not his wife or others in the family.

Ivan had a little medal on his watch chain inscribed "Respice finem" (look to the end). And it is the actual "death" that is significant.

Like most people, Ivan had been afraid of death, but as soon as he accepted the pain, he could not find the fear.

"There was no more fear because there was no more death.""

Instead of death there was light, "What joy!" says Ivan.

With this story Tolstoy is giving us a crucial message - there is no death, when our body dies, we go into the light.

[suesbooks · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The writing and the characters were so precise. Tolstoy's negative views of life and overall relationships was quite distressing. My copy (1960) included also Family Happiness, The Kreutzer Sonata, and Master and Man.

[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.

[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.

[benuathanasia · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The chronology of this is wonderful. It begins with the end, making the reader question why we should care, and then builds up, creating this flawed but sympathetic character going through life crises most of us can empathize with, before...A phenomenal ending that couldn't have gone any other way.

[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.

[justagirlwithabook · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This one was recommended to me by a friend who has since passed away. He reminisced on this as the book that changed the way he looked at life. I read it shortly after he passed away, to feel a bit closer and to help me through the grieving process. It was a good one but definitely quite depressing.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[pilgrimjess · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

“Ivan Ilych's life had been most simple and most ordinary and therefore most terrible.”

The book opens at the end of the story when a group of judges are informed that Ivan Ilyich has died. These men rather than mourn his passing instead begin to think of the promotions and transfers that the death will mean. That evening, one of the number travels to Ivan's house to attend his funeral. But whilst there becomes bothered by an expression of disapproval and warning on Ivan's face.

The story then shifts more than thirty years into the past and picks up with a description of Ivan's life. As a teenager he attends a Law School where he takes on the habits and mannerisms of his contemporaries who are generally of those with high social standing. Ivan becomes a magistrate and marries Praskovya. Everything seems to be going smoothly until Praskovya becomes pregnant. Suddenly Praskovya's behaviour changes and they begin to argue a lot but rather than face it Ivan buries himself in his work and distances himself from his family.

Time passes and Ivan moves up in the ranks and is eventually awarded a higher paying position in St Petersburg where he moves his family to. Whilst decorating the home he bangs his side against the window frame. The injury does not seem serious, but sometime late Ivan begins to experience some discomfort in his left side and an unusual taste in his mouth. The discomfort gradually increases and Ivan decides to see several doctors . However, the doctors all disagree on the nature of the illness and Ivan's physical condition degenerates rapidly.

One night while lying alone in the dark, he is visited by his first thoughts of mortality, and they terrify him. He realizes that his illness is not a question of health or disease, but of life or death. Ivan knows that he is dying, but he is unable to grasp the full implications of his mortality. As his health fails Ivan starts examine his life and begins to question whether or nor it was a good one.

This only a short novella and in many respects quite black in its outlook but is a very harsh look at how people choose to live their lives and whether or not our ambitions and ideals were real or merely artificial. Whether our official and personal lives can and should truly be kept separate.

[lynsey2-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A short story about life and death and the mental suffering that results at the end of a life lived without meaning. For a book written in the 1800's, I found this to be still relevant today. It is the very common story of a man who throws himself into his work when he finds himself dissatisfied with his home life. His focus becomes about upward mobility but as he reflects at the end of his life "It is as if I had been going downhill while I imagined I was going up." A very short read, if you haven't read this classic yet it is worth the day to do it.

[engpunk77 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was one of my favorite stories of all time in 1999. I read it over and over again, thinking it contained and could reveal all the wisdom in the world.

[martinbodek · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I spotted this on a friend's shelf, borrowed it, and read it in an afternoon. I found it to be an interesting - and arrestingly short - contemplation of the end of life and life's worth/value. The introduction was extremely helpful in understanding the context of Tolstoy's complete antithesis regard for life in comparison with his character. I'm not exactly sure why this stands out for historians as a unique book of its kind, as the introduction reveals and reminds that other such literature exists, perhaps better. A good first experience with the author nonetheless.

[trilliams · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Two spoilers: Ivan dies, and this book is great.

[mahallett · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

a good story of a dying man. good introduction

[bayardus-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Until the nature of his injury makes itself known Ivan Ilych ambles through life, succeeding in both his career and personal life (at least he keeps up the facade of success in those realms). Yet Ivan Ilych never exhibits any passion, nor does he examine the path he has taken and where it might lead.

When a foolish accident brings home his own mortality, however, Ivan Ilych is forced to consider all the things he had taken for granted before. His unhappy marriage, his career that he sometimes enjoyed but largely performed for the sake of a salary and social advancement, and his life in general where he never stood for or against anything, all provide grist for Ivan's tormented mind. The nature of life and the inevitability of death spur in Ivan thoughts about dying for the first time. Tolstoy gives us a dying man who is bitter that everyone else is continuing their lives as if "the world was going on as usual." Of course, to everyone except the dying man, it is. He gives us a man who always thought of himself as death's exception. Everyone has probably done something similar, at least at times, because that thought is so much easier to grasp compared to the idea that we are mortal and will be dead someday, our consciousness ending like a candle being snuffed. He gives us a man railing against the cruelty of God while simultaneously railing against God's absence. Finally Tolstoy lets Ivan Ilych begin to examine his own life, and as he does so he realizes that his moments of purest happiness were during childhood, and since then his life has been one big death-spiral, before giving Ivan a moment of forgiveness and what I interpret as divine absolution.

Tolstoy in this book tells what I imagine is a universal tale of a person trying to reconcile themselves with his or her own mortality. We probably have all had the thoughts that go through Ivan's head in our own head at some point in our lives- if anything Ivan Ilych thinks about hasn't occurred to you in at least a general sense before then you probably don't spend much time thinking- but Tolstoy presents these thoughts well. That being said, his writing did not spur any realization about life or death that I didn't have before I began the book. Maybe I contemplate my own mortality more than most people do? I think that, despite the lack of new insight, the book could have been great if the scenes of Iva Ilych's terror and suffering were portrayed with great prose that made the scenes depicted viscerally striking. I didn't find the prose to be particularly impressive, unfortunately, though that may be the fault of the Maude translation. I also thought the ending was a bit of a cop-out, at least if you interpret the ending as his soul receiving forgiveness, as it undercuts the fear of death and the ensuing nothingness that was such an integral part of the story up until that point. I hope Tolstoy really believed in such forgiveness, and didn't include it so as to give a more uplifting ending, because the story would have been better off without it.

If you've never really thought about death, it's worth reading a book that contemplates such a thing. There are plenty to choose from: Death Comes for the Archbishop, Gilead, The Tartar Steppe, or Hamlet just to name a few (death is hardly a rare theme). Still, The Death of Ivan Ilych stands out as perhaps the work most focused on death. Choose it if that sounds appealing to you.

[clara53_1 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

In this short novella Tolstoy ingeniously unmasks the raw emotions and the puzzled lamentations of one Ivan Ilyich, a typical personage of his time, as he lies dying while suffering physical and mental agony (the latter being as excruciating as the former), trying to grasp the seeming "unfairness" of his position and finally arriving at some startling realizations about his life. The surrounding characters come under harsh light as they hover around the dying man and reveal their most unattractive human traits, and Ivan Ilyich is finally able to see through the veil of human hypocrisy. Not an upbeat story in the least. But one with a pretty clever insight into human nature. It also does point to the unrelenting frailty of life.

[aliceanna-1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A brilliant short work. He captured the psychology of a dying man and those around him with a great deal of thoroughness. The end of Illych had him questioning so many of the silly societal mores which he had self-imposed, but in the end, his resignation to the peaceful pull of death put the angst behind him. Wonderfully written.