By Margery Hannah
Iván Ilych wasn’t so bad. He beat neither his wife nor children. Every day he worked, and provided a home for his family while fairly prioritizing his children’s education. So he didn’t like to be home. How was he to cope with a nag? He lived beyond his means, too, but so does the average good American.
Maybe that is the antithetical core of The Death of Iván Ilych: roar, socialists! Iván’s happiness declined as his material success rose, serving as a warning against capitalism, a tale of redemption through death, a biblical embrace of true riches coming with the crossing over. Iván was “done in” by his own guts, the same stomach it took to reclaim his life, to leave his brother-in law’s home and obtain the specific salaried job he’d set out to snag. But it was not enough, as it is never enough; Tolstoy points out Iván’s new home was just one room too short and his pay some five hundred rubles too little.
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Chelle A. Carter-Wilson