No, lies, you do the whipping, I won’t; I’ll get Trifon with words, I’ll get him with reproaches, and he’ll feel it. About birch rods,11 hm… an unsolved problem, hm… But shouldn’t I stop at Emerance’s? Pah, the devil, you cursed planks!” he cried, suddenly tripping. “And this is the capital! Enlightenment! You could break a leg. Hm. I hate this Semyon Ivanych; a most disgusting mug. He sniggered at me tonight when I said they’d embrace each other morally. So they will, and what do you care? You I won’t embrace; sooner a peasant… I’ll meet a peasant, and talk with a peasant. Anyhow, I was drunk, and maybe didn’t express myself properly. Maybe I’m not expressing myself properly now either… Hm. I’m never going to drink. You babble in the evening, then the next day you repent. So what, I’m not staggering as I walk… And anyhow, they’re all rogues!”

So Ivan Ilyich reasoned, desultorily and incoherently, as he went on down the sidewalk. The fresh air affected him and, so to speak, got him going. Another five minutes and he would have calmed down and wanted to sleep. But suddenly, about two steps from Bolshoi Prospect, he heard music. He looked around. On the other side of the street, in a very decrepit, one-story, but long wooden house, a great feast was going on, fiddles hummed, a string bass droned, and a flute spouted shrilly to a very merry quadrille tune. The public was standing under the windows, mostly women in quilted coats with kerchiefs on their heads; they strained all their efforts to make something out through the chinks in the blinds. Obviously there was merriment. The sound of the dancers’ stomping reached the other side of the street. Ivan Ilyich noticed a policeman not far away and went up to him.

“Whose house is that, brother?” he said, throwing his expensive fur coat open slightly, just enough so that the policeman could notice the important decoration on his neck.

“The clerk Pseldonymov’s, a legistrar,”12 the policeman, who instantly managed to make out the decoration, replied, straightening up.

“Pseldonymov? Hah! Pseldonymov!… What’s he doing, getting married?”

“Getting married, Your Honor, to a titular councillor’s daughter. Mlekopitaev,13 a titular councillor… served on the board. That house comes with the bride, sir.”

“So it’s already Pseldonymov’s house, not Mlekopitaev’s?”

“Pseldonymov’s, Your Honor. Used to be Mlekopitaev’s, and now it’s Pseldonymov’s.”

“Hm. I’m asking, brother, because I’m his superior. I’m general over the place where Pseldonymov works.”

“Right, Your Excellency.” The policeman drew himself all the way up, but Ivan Ilyich seemed to have lapsed into thought. He was standing and reflecting …

Yes, Pseldonymov actually was from his department, from his own office; he recalled that. He was a petty clerk, with a salary of about ten roubles a month. Since Mr. Pralinsky had taken over his office still very recently, he might not have remembered all his subordinates in too much detail, but Pseldonymov he did remember, precisely apropos of his last name.