It was for that he came.

“A fine pair, though,” he thought. “However…”

And he again addressed himself to the bride, who was placed beside him on the sofa, but all he received to his two or three questions was again only a “yes” or a “no,” and in fact he did not quite receive even that.

“If only she’d get a little embarrassed,” he went on to himself. “Then I could start joking. Otherwise there’s no way out.” And Akim Petrovich, as if on purpose, was also silent, though only out of stupidity, but still it was inexcusable.

“Gentlemen! am I not perhaps interfering with your pleasures?” he tried to address everyone in general. He felt that his palms were even sweating.

“No, sir… Don’t worry, Your Excellency, we’ll get started right away, and for now… we’re cooling our heels, sir,” the officer replied. The bride glanced at him with pleasure: the officer was still young and wore the uniform of some command or other. Pseldonymov stood right there, thrusting himself forward, and seemed to stick his hooked nose out still more than before. He listened and watched, like a lackey who stands holding a fur coat and waiting for the parting words of his masters to come to an end. Ivan Ilyich made this comparison himself; he was at a loss, felt that he was ill at ease, terribly ill at ease, that the ground was slipping from under his feet, that he had gotten somewhere and could not get out, as if in the dark.

Suddenly everyone stepped aside, and a heavyset and not very tall woman appeared, elderly, simply dressed though with some festiveness, a big shawl around her shoulders, pinned at the throat, and wearing a bonnet to which she was obviously not accustomed. In her hands was a small, round tray on which stood a not yet started, but already uncorked, bottle of champagne and two glasses, no more nor less. The bottle was evidently meant for only two guests.

The elderly woman went straight up to the general.

“Don’t find fault, Your Excellency,” she said, bowing, “but since you haven’t disdained us, doing us the honor of coming to my son’s wedding, be so kind as to congratulate the young folk with wine. Don’t disdain it, do us the honor.”

Ivan Ilyich seized upon her as his salvation. She was not such an old woman, about forty-five or -six, no more. But she had such a kind, red-cheeked, such an open, round Russian face, she smiled so good-naturedly, bowed so simply, that Ivan Ilyich was almost reassured and began to have hopes.

“So yo-o-ou are the ma-ter-nal pa-a-arent of your so-o-on?” he said, rising from the sofa.

“The maternal parent, Your Excellency,” Pseldonymov maundered, stretching his long neck and again sticking his nose out.

“Ah! Very glad, ve-ry glad to make your acquaintance.”

“Don’t scorn us, then, Your Excellency.”

“Even with the greatest pleasure.”

The tray was set down, Pseldonymov leaped over and poured the wine. Ivan Ilyich, still standing, took the glass.

“I am especially, especially glad of this occasion, since I can…” he began, “since I can… herewith pay my… In a word, as a superior… I wish you, madam” (he turned to the bride), “and you, my friend Porfiry—I wish you full, prosperous, and enduring happiness.”

And, even with emotion, he drank off the glass, his seventh that evening. Pseldonymov looked serious and even sullen. The general was beginning to hate him painfully.

“And this hulk” (he glanced at the officer) “is stuck here, too. Why doesn’t he shout ‘hurrah!’ Then it would take off, take right off…”

“And you, too, Akim Petrovich, drink and congratulate them,” added the old woman, addressing the chief clerk. “You’re a superior, he’s your subordinate. Look after my boy, I ask you as a mother. And don’t forget us in the future, dear Akim Petrovich, kind man that you are.”

“How nice these Russian old women are!” thought Ivan Ilyich. “She’s revived them all. I’ve always liked our folkways…”

At that moment another tray was brought to the table. It was carried by a wench in a rustling, not yet laundered calico dress with a crinoline. She could barely get her arms around the tray, it was so big. On it was a numberless multitude of little plates with apples, bonbons, gumdrops, candied fruit, walnuts, and so on and so forth. Till then the tray had been in the drawing room, for the pleasure of all the guests, mainly the ladies. But now it was brought over to the general alone.

“Don’t scorn our victuals, Your Excellency. What we’ve got, we’re glad to give,” the old woman repeated, bowing.

“Heavens…” said Ivan Ilyich, and even with pleasure he took and crushed between his fingers a single walnut. He was resolved to be popular to the end.

Meanwhile the bride suddenly began to giggle.

“What, ma’am?” Ivan Ilyich asked with a smile, glad of some signs of life.

“It’s Ivan Kostenkinych there, making me laugh, sir,” she replied, looking down.

The general actually made out a blond youth, not bad-looking at all, hiding on the other side of the sofa in a chair, who kept whispering something to Madame Pseldonymov.